The Songs of Our Lives
by luvtwilight4eva
Summary: This life is not an easy one. It's marked by two consistencies: life and death. Everything in between those are just...songs of one's life. Follow Edward and Bella as they contend with the various songs that have marked their lives. Copward, Cheaterward, Daddyward, Teacherella. AH/OOC.
1. Prologue

Prologue ~ The Song of My Life (by Petula Clark)

Everyone has a song that belongs to their life

That will go on and on, through the years of their life

There's a wonderful song, one that you brought to me

And I look on this song as my life's symphony

This is the song of my life

It will go on through my life

Something you said tenderly

Suddenly it's music for me

It springs from things that we share

Only through you is it there

I walk along day and night

Singing the song of my life

I can picture the past that we knew yesterday

Every tear, every laugh, every step of the way

I recall what was wrong and the things that were right

And each moment belongs to the song of my life

This is the song of my life

It will go on through my life

Something you said tenderly

Suddenly it's music for me

It springs from things that we share

Only through you is it there

I walk along day and night

Singing the song of my life

This is the song of my life

It will go on through my life

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _The Song of My Life_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Friday, September 19, 2025**

_What a day_, I think to myself.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I can see the bags under my eyes from lack of sleep and late nights entertaining well-wishers. There has just been so much to do, from cleaning out closets, deciding who gets what, to organizing the program! I have no idea how I did it all without actually jumping off a bridge. I give myself a mental shake, chanting, "You can do this."

As my parents' only child—well, no, I'm not really an only child—I was the one designated to do this. For some reason, my siblings think all _this_ is my responsibility. Maybe it's because I was the only one of them that was raised by both parents. If you ask them, the two resounding answers are _she's the more logical one_ and _we are too grief consumed_. I know this to be a factual statement because those were the two consistent responses I got from my siblings when all this started. I mean, am I not grieving as well? I guess not, or maybe my grief has not immobilized me to the point where I can't make decisions or phone calls like their grief has. I'm not judging them, but why in heaven is it always left to me to act as the logical and responsible point person in times of trouble? What's that saying? "If it be possible, let this cup pass from me?"1 That's in the _Bible_ somewhere, right? I guess _this_ cup is _all mine_.

_Go shower_, I mentally say to myself.

Entering my bathroom, I look at my vanity set that has brought me some comfort, and I smile. I remember asking for a dark cherry wood vanity set years ago. When we finally had the money, Jake made sure it was in our newly-renovated bathroom. It still makes me smile even on a day like this. I turn on the shower and immerse myself in the heated water, letting the cascading shower temper my thoughts.

I walk over to my closet to figure out what I'll wear. In the section with all my black outfits, I spy the perfect dress for today. I take out my black A-line chiffon dress and put on minimal make-up. I hear the sounds of feet walking to and fro on our downstairs hardwood floors. "They are waiting on you, Nessie." That does not have the desired effect I was hoping for.

I just can't seem to get my feet to move from this bedroom.

I double check that I have everything in my purse. Lipgloss, _check_. Extra hairpins, _check_. Tissue, _check_. Wallet, _check_.

_Come on, go down those steps, you wimp._ That's what I tell myself in the hopes that my spiked black Louboutins will leave my bedroom. I look over my make-up once again. It still looks perfect, as it did ten minutes ago. My usually unruly, curly bronze-colored hair (inherited from my father) is still as secure as it was the last time I checked it.

As I sit on my plush vanity chair, I hear footsteps approaching the bathroom door. I already know who it is.

"Ren, are you ready?"

"I think so."

"Well, they are waiting on us."

I stand with a sigh and walk toward him. The familiar scent of his natural maleness mixed with the new cologne, _Black _by Kenneth Cole, he's trying out greets me at the door. He extends a hand toward me and I take it. He's been my pillar of strength.

"Okay, let's go bury them."

This is a story as much about my parents' lives as it is about mine. My name is Renesmee Carlie Black, formerly Cullen, and these are the songs of our lives.

**Author's Note:**

This is my first story, so please drop me a line and review. I'd like to thank the ladies over at Sparkly Red Pen for their wonderful services. My Technical Beta, JaspersDestiny, who's teaching me about the proper use of conversation tags and how to use em dashes and my Creative Beta, MissJanuary, who's very supportive of this little story. They both have their work cut out for them.

Also, this story is on FanFiction under my penname, luvtwilight4eva and The Writer's Coffee Shop, under the penname twilightlover2. The story on both sites belong to me and is written by me. Same story title/content but different pen name. No need to report me to the either site's Administrators for plagiarism.

1 Matthew 26:29


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 ~ I Will Remember You (by Sarah McLachlan)

I will remember you, will you remember me?

Don't let your life pass you by,

Weep not for the memories

Remember the good times that we had?

I let them slip away from us when things got bad.

How clearly I first saw you smilin' in the sun

Want to feel your warmth upon me

I want to be the one

[Chorus]

I will remember you, will you remember me?

Don't let your life pass you by

Weep not for the memories

I'm so tired but I can't sleep

Standin' on the edge of something much too deep

It's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word

We are screaming inside, but we can't be heard

[Chorus]

I'm so afraid to love you

But more afraid to lose

Clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose

Once there was a darkness

Deep and endless night

You gave me everything you had, oh you gave me life

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight_, and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. _I Will Remember You_ and _Every Mother's Dream_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Sometime early on Friday, September 12, 2025**

"_Hey, Ms. Swan," he says to me._

_"Hey, Cullen," I reply._

_"How ya been? You are looking good there, Ms. Swan."_

_"Thanks. Cullen, where are we and why are we up so early?" _

_"I had to interrupt your sleep for this dream to happen, Ms. Swan."_

"_Why? I'll see you in a couple of hours. Not that I'm complaining or anything."_

_"Oh, you're complaining, alright," he says with a sigh and a shake of his head. "Remember, I know you. This is way too early for you."_

_"Well, just so you acknowledge that it _is_ too early. So, I'm dreaming? That's cool. Now that you have me here, what do you intend to do with me, Cullen?" _

_"Now, now, there'll be none of that...well, not yet anyway," he says with a smile._

_"Then what in the world do you want?" _

_"Do you remember how we met?"_

_"Do I remember how _we_ met? What kind of question is that? More importantly, Cullen, do _you_ remember?"_

_"Ms. Swan, I remember everything about you."_

_"How sweet of you, Cullen. I remember a lot since you remind me about a lot."_

_"I have something to tell you and I want you to remember it," he says urgently as he takes my hands. "You have to remember this all by yourself, okay?" _

_"Okay...but, Edward, you're starting to scare me a little bit," I tell him anxiously._

_"Don't be, Izzy. My Sweet Isabella…" he says as he drops my left hand and begins to rub the wrist of my right hand. "I...I don't think I am going to make our date."_

_I pull my hand from his grasp in anger. "Cullen, what do you mean you're not going to make it! We've talked about this. Made arrangements, spent money, told the kids, grandkids, and all our friends."_

_"Izzy, it's not that I don't want to make it..." he begins lovingly._

_"Well, have you changed your mind, then?" I cup his left cheek with my hand. "We can wait to get married, you know. I don't need a paper to tell me that you're mine," I tell him tenderly._

_"I know that, Izzy, but I had high hopes of us marrying—" _

_"Well, then, no buts!" I tell him. "Dr. Freeman has cleared you, and all your test results are looking good."_

_"I know, Izzy, but this old body of mine just isn't cooperating with me."_

_"Cullen, don't worry about that. You've been through worse and you're still here," I say optimistically. "Those two surgeries you had back in the day plus the one bullet that's still in you should let you know just how strong you are."_

_"I know, and I've been telling my body that I have a date tomorrow with New York's prettiest lady, but—"_

_"But nothing, Edward Anthony Masen Cullen!" I exclaim. "I will see you at the chapel tomorrow at two o'clock. You hear me! Show up or else!"_

_"Ah...that's the mouth that hooked me back in '76."_

_"Just so you know, if you don't show up tomorrow you'll be hearing much more of this mouth, Cullen."_

_"Yes, Ms. Isabella Marie Swan, soon-to-be again Cullen."_

_"You bet your ass that's a yes," I say saucily while I lean toward him for a kiss. "Now, how about we really amp this dream up..."_

_He leans toward me as well but instead slightly pushes my head to the side and whispers in my right ear, "I love you. I've only ever loved you, and I'll always love you. I tried real hard to wait until tomorrow, okay?"_

_"What do you mean you tried…?"_

_"Now," he tells me softly looking directly into my eyes, "you'll only be able to see me in your dreams." _

_I pull away from him, saying, "Huh?" _and all I hear is the insistent ringing of my phone.

"Cullen, get the phone. It's Nessie," I say groggily. My brain registers the song, _Every Mother's Dream_ by Teresa James, that Nessie had downloaded onto my cell a couple of weeks ago.

But the phone keeps ringing and that's when I remember. He's at Bogue Hospital and can't answer the phone. _Damn, I'm really getting old_, I think quietly to myself.

Now why on God's green earth is Nessie calling me at this hour? I sure hope it's not to babysit those rugrats. "Love them to death, I really do, but not today, Nessie," I say out loud to no one in particular. I still have so much to do for tomorrow, like writing my vows. Those darn vows. I don't know why I opened my big mouth and told Cullen that we should write our own. Darn it!

I glance at the clock, which reads 6:30am.

Hey, you...yeah, you. You who's currently reading about my life as if this were just another story. I have a question for you: have you ever had one of those moments that you wish you could freeze, rewind, and just hit a delete button erasing all the bad things that are about to happen?

Well, this is the exact point in my life where I would have done just that. But as such, this is real life and not a movie or a fictional story. So, for future reference, there's no delete button for the unpleasantries of life, unfortunately.

"Hello," I answer sleepily.

"Mom, are you awake?"

"No, Nessie. It's still too early for me to open my eyes."

"Mom..."

"Nessie..." We do this sometimes. She's impatient to tell me something and I'm too sleepy to patiently wait for her to finish her sentence. "I hope you're not about to ask me to babysit the grandkids? I would, but I still have so much to do for tomorrow."

"Uh, no." I hear her as she clears her throat. "Um…no, I don't need you to babysit for us, Mom. I really don't know quite how to say this."

"Nessie, stop beating around the damn bush," I growl into the phone. "What are you talking about so early in the morning?"

My daughter, so unlike me and much more like her father, seems to almost always have great epiphanies, deep revelations, and make life-altering decisions at very un-godly times in the morning. Me? It takes my brain, at the very least, two cups of coffee before anyone can even consider having a normal speed conversation with me, let alone this heavy conversation Nessie seems determined to involve me in right now.

I attempt to sit up a little in my bed. I have a real random thought about my love for our new four-poster, cherry wood bed. Cullen and I picked it from Raymour & Flanigan® about a month ago.

As the fog begins to clear from my brain, it's becoming obvious that she is calling because she wants to talk about some decision that she's unsure of my reaction about. Okay, I can talk, I think. Maybe I won't have to talk too much. _I can definitely listen_, I muse internally.

Nessie barks out a laugh. "Mom, I hope you know you just said all of your internal musings out loud."

"Yeah? Well, that's what happens when you call this early. You get my brain farts and freezes," I say in the hope of lightening the mood. "Nessie, what do you want?"

"The hospital called about half an hour ago. Um...he's gone, Mom."

"Huh? What did you just say?" Now _that_ statement wakes me all the way up. I am so wide awake it's not funny. Now I know there are no epiphanies, revelations, or life-altering decisions. She wants to talk with me about Cullen. "He's gone? What does that even mean, Nessie?"

"Mom, he's _gone_ gone. I'm so sorry. He died about five o'clock this morning. He's really gone."

"He's gone?" I say to her like my hearing has recently been impaired, especially by this particular conversation.

"Yeah, Mom. He's dead. Dad died. Um, listen...I'm going to have to call you back later. I have to go to the hospital now. I'll let you know."

She doesn't finish her sentence, or more specifically, I don't hear her finish her sentence because the phone slips from my ear onto the bed.

He's gone. With just three little words, my world is changed. The _he_ whom I've known for the better part of four decades...is gone.

There are some things that, once you hear them, you know will be a pivotal turning point in your life. That's what Nessie's phone call just did; it turned what was (again) soon-to-be my right side world upside-the hell-down. Again!

It's just like when I heard that President Kennedy and Dr. King were assassinated. Just hearing about their deaths had devastated me even though I'd never known them personally.

The phone call from Nessie leaves me gasping for air to breathe. I'm confused and devastated all at the same time. Up until her call, there were four major events in my life that were overwhelmingly pivotal: the news of my pregnancy; the death of my mother; the death of my good friend, Rosie; and my divorce. Now I have to add _this_ to that list.

He's gone. He's _really_ gone. I realize that I still had not ended the call with Nessie when I heard the annoying beeping sound through the receiver.

I hang up the phone and automatically look to my right, to his side of the bed. He'd only spent a week there. We were just beginning again. That's all I—_we_—had had together. A week of promises, commitments, kisses, love making... Just one single week together.

We had made so many plans. Plans to travel, plans of my retirement, plans to spend more time with our grandkids...and our main plan: to remarry.

Now that's all gone because _he's _gone. Damn it all to hell!

I run my hand over the smooth, cool sheets and shake my head. "Cullen, you promised you wouldn't leave me," I say to his side of the bed as my hand hovers over the slight indentation in his pillow. Why would he leave and not even tell me? It's not like him to just leave and not say anything.

Then I remember the dream. The dream from this morning.

What was it that he whispered to me? My brain can't seem to process Nessie's phone call, his death, and my dream. It's jumbling everything together.

I just can't seem to remember what he whispered and it's bothering me because I should remember.

Just then my alarm clock comes on blasting out our _new_ new song, _I Will Remember You_ by Sarah McLachlan, reminding me of the time. Seven o'clock.

And then I remember.

"_I love you. I've only ever loved you and I'll always love you. I tried real hard to wait until tomorrow, okay? Now, you'll only be able to see me in your dreams." _

And that is how my Saturday, a day I had planned to write my vows, became the day that I, Isabella Marie Cullen, cried my heart out. Until it stopped.

**Author's Note:**

This is my first story, so please drop me a line and review. I'd like to thank the ladies over at Sparkly Red Pen for their wonderful services. My Technical Beta, JaspersDestiny, who's teaching me about the proper use of conversation tags and how to use em dashes and my Creative Beta, MissJanuary, who's very supportive of this little story. They both have their work cut out for them.

Also, this story is on FanFiction under my penname, luvtwilight4eva and The Writer's Coffee Shop, under the penname twilightlover2. The story on both sites belong to me and is written by me. Same story title/content but different pen name. No need to report me to the either site's Administrators for plagiarism.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 ~ Love Story/Where Do I Begin? (by Andy Williams)

Where do I begin?

To tell the story of how great a love can be?

The sweet love story that is older than the sea

The simple truth about the love she brings to me

Where do I start?

With her first hello

She gave new meaning to this empty world of mine

There'd never be another love, another time

She came into my life and made the living fine

She fills my heart

She fills my heart with very special things

With angels songs, with wild imaginings

She fills my soul with so much love

That anywhere I go I'm never lonely

With her around, who could be lonely?

I reach for her hand-it's always there

How long does it last?

Can love be measured by the hours in a day?

I have no answers now but this much I can say

I know I'll need her till the stars all burn away

And she'll be there

How long does it last?

Can love be measured by the hours in a day?

I have no answers now but this much I can say

I know I'll need her till the stars all burn away

And she'll be there

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight_, and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of the song, _Love Story/Where Do I Begin?_ is owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced. I have taken creative license about a court's proceedings.

**Thursday, June 17, 1976**

"Today is too nice for this," I think to myself as I make my way toward the massive building.

I hate wearing suits. They make those of us who have a more laid back attitude look stuffy and out of place. And ties? I think they were invented by women who hate men.

As I, again, loosen my tie for the umpteenth time since this morning, I start chanting, "I hate ties. I hate freaking ties," while walking up the steps leading to the inside of the building. At the very top of the building's red stucco bricks reads _Upper Salem County Court_.

And to think, I will be stuck inside this building on such a nice day. I just hope that my case is called quickly and the judge isn't a nincompoop—two wishes you can never be sure of at this particular court. _Please, let me just present the evidence, skip over any questions since my evidence is clear-cut (at least, it is to me), and go the hell home_, I silently ask God.

The coolness of the building hits my face and I sigh in relief. One thing this court does not lack is air conditioning. Maybe they knew you'd spend your entire life, or what seems like it, in here dealing with nincompoops. So, as a consolation, they provide good air on the very hot days and blazing heat on the very cold ones. Now why am I hyper-focused on the court's superior HVAC system when I don't even know which court room I should be in?

I make a quick detour and find a spare bench where I pop open my trusty briefcase. I take out the manila folder with today's court information. Room 211. Judge Hardgrove. _Yes!_ God is certainly smiling on me today.

Judge Maria Hardgrove is no nincompoop, let me tell you. And she's super-fast with her cases. _This day is looking much better now_, I think as I put the manila folder back into my briefcase. I do believe this day is still salvageable. I can spend some time with Em and then later on...the possibilities are endless. My mouth begins to water as my mind starts to imagine all the things I can do later on. All my internal musings put a smile on my face as my steps become lighter in search of Room 211.

I push open the heavy oak doors of the courtroom, head nod a couple of the other cops I know, and make my way to find a seat near the front. Assistant District Attorney Johnson is my favorite ADA so far. She knows her law, throwing the book at the hardened criminals but also giving a person a second chance, if need be. But that's not why she's my favorite. About two weeks ago I learned about the intricacies of ADA Johnson. Let's just say that the things she does are criminal, and that's saying a lot since she's the county defender. My wisecrack puts a smile on my face just as ADA Johnson notices me sitting down. However, the smile leaves my face a little when I consider that ADA Johnson would not find my wisecrack as funny as I do.

Yeah, me and the ADA shagged, did it, bumped uglies...whatever you want to call it, we did it. She's good, but she isn't my woman or anything. I have no time for anymore entanglements in my life. Besides, I'm already in a complicated thing with Ruthie, my kid's mother. As I take a seat, I rein in my thoughts for the task at hand because I don't want to think about anything complicated that has nothing to do with this case.

The court clerk, who I've sampled as well but for the life of me can't remember her name, announces, "Docket Number 041547". She gives me a wink and I give her a nod of my head.

I approach the judge's bench at the same time a young girl—she can't be more than sixteen, if she's that old—also approaches. My photographic memory instantly records that she's in a knee-length red, white, and blue jersey dress with red high-heeled-platform shoes and a blue scarf tied to the side on her neck. Why I know the difference between cotton and jersey fabrics as well as the types of shoes women wear is beyond me. But I do, and that's all that matters. I admire the young lady's stylish appearance. Instantly, I know that she isn't trying to be stylish because of today's court appearance or to seem more adult-like; in my fifteen-second glance at her, I know the way she dresses is instinctual for her.

The bailiff indicates a man to stand. It's Jasper "Jetpup" Hale, the county thief—and that's saying a lot given the size of our county. If it's not nailed, cemented, or glued down, Jetpup knows how to steal it for a price. And even with all those precautions, he can and will find a way to steal it. He's that good—at stealing, that is. Everything else, like holding down a job, he doesn't even attempt. I know Jetpup and his sweet-natured mother Goldie. In the five years since I was assigned to #13 Mobayton Police Station, I've personally arrested him about twenty times.

Standing in front of Judge Hardgrove is ADA Johnson to my right. I'm in the middle, and to my left has got to be New York's sweetest smelling lady...um, girl, whatever. I may have sniffed her a few times once her strawberry scent wafted over from her general vicinity. Jetpup stands to the girl's left, with his public defender to his left.

The county clerk says, "Docket Number 041547. Upper Salem County of New York versus Jasper Hale." She hands the file to the judge.

Judge Hardgrove adjusts her glasses. "Please present your evidence, ADA Johnson".

"Yes, your Honor. On April 23, 1976, at approximately 6pm, Mr. Hale was stopped by Officer Cullen at the corner of Manley Plaza and Seaga Avenue. Officer Cullen noted his erratic driving and pulled him over for suspicion of driving under the influence. After checking that all his documentation was in order, Officer Cullen asked Mr. Hale to exit the vehicle to begin testing his intoxication level. As he exited the car, Officer Cullen noticed a gold-linked chain with a beetle hanging from Mr. Hale's neck—"

"Officer Cullen, would you proceed, please?" the judge interrupts.

"Yes, your Honor. I saw Mr. Hale with the gold chain and, knowing his reputation and previous arrests for theft, I inquired about the chain. He stated that the chain belonged to his girlfriend. I thought his story unlikely because of his history. Whatever his reasoning, I did not believe him," I finish.

I take a small breath before I continue. "I arrested him for DUI and stolen property. I told him the stolen property charge might be dropped and said item returned to his," I use air quotes, "_girlfriend_ if she came to court with a bill of sale for the property in question," I end sarcastically.

From the corner of my eye, I see Little Miss Girlfriend huff in annoyance at my last statement. Well, I'm glad she noticed my sarcastic tone; now I know she's paying attention. I guess Jetpup's girlfriend is not so dumb. I mean, she _is_ kind of dumb for hooking up with a looser like Jetpup, but maybe she isn't all the way dumb, if you know what I mean.

Hey, don't judge me. That statement sounded much better in my head. She's dumb but not really _dumb_ dumb. I shake my head at my own dumb internal monologue. She opens her mouth, and that's when I hear a particular lilt I've never heard in a woman's voice before.

"Judge, the chain is mine," she forcefully tells Judge Hardgrove.

Her voice intrigues me. Now I start second guessing my built-in, never-fail gut instinct that had indicated she was about sixteen years old. The husky, almost trying to get a breath, tone of her voice could age her considerably. And, for some reason, I want that; I want her to be older. I don't get to analyze this thought, though, because I see Judge Hardgrove's open mouth before I hear her statement.

"And you would be the..." Judge Hardgrove leads.

"I'm Isabella Swan. I have my bill of sale right here."

I notice she does not identify herself as "the girlfriend" and my heart leaps just a little by her slip of tongue or momentary loss of memory, whatever it is. I see her wave a small, white sheet of paper in front of her face. That small movement sends more of her strawberry scent into the air and I infinitesimally move my left nostril toward her so I can inhale more. I savor the smell like a dying man about to eat his last meal. Whoa, I like how she smells! This revelation hits me because, first, I'm not a strawberry man—I much prefer the smell of apples and oranges—and second, I'm not the kind of man that goes around sniffing women. That's just weird—and weird, I ain't. But here I am relishing this foreign scent that I normally hate as if my life depends on it. Go figure! And it seems she has the same effect on Jetpup because, from my peripheral line of sight, he leans slightly closer to Isabella. _That_, I do not like. Nope, I don't like that one bit.

Isabella... That's a nice name. I've never known an Isabella. And I know lots of women. She looks young but hopefully not too young, especially because of her dress and voice. _Focus, Cullen, no time to think of tail_. Especially tail that could make you lose your badge and go to jail.

"Ms. Swan, how did Mr. Hale come into possession of your chain?" Judge Hardgrove asks.

Good question, Judge. I'd like to know the answer to that one, too. So I turn a little toward Little Miss Girlfriend because maybe if I face her that damn strawberry scent of hers will stop invading my nostrils. And maybe without the scent in my nose, I'll be able to pay complete attention to the court's proceedings.

I have been wondering what in the world Sweet Isabella would want with Jetpup. Changing her name from Little Miss Girlfriend—because _little_ she isn't, I hope—to Sweet Isabella is pure genius because she does, in fact, smell and look sweet.

Again she has unwittingly re-directed my focus. Like the judge, I want to know why she would be the "girlfriend" of a good-for-nothing, no-job-having, steal-anything-not-nailed-down-and-maybe-even-that -too Jetpup?! Plus, he's older than her, in fact. He's at least twenty-four years old. I don't let the fact that I'm older than Jetpup interrupt my rants.

If she is indeed Jetpup's "girlfriend," then she really has poor taste in men, and I wonder if my original perception of her being _dumb_ dumb still stands. I realize that I'm breathlessly waiting for her to clarify her relationship with Jetpup to the judge.

"He took it from me during an argument. All I want is my chain back," Sweet Isabella says.

"Your Honor!" Jetpup pipes up. He kind of sounds like a broken toy, if you ask me. But no one asked me, so I'll be keeping that opinion to myself.

"Did I give you permission to address the court, Mr. Hale?" Judge Hardgrove says harshly. Maybe she's tired of seeing him in her court again.

Jetpup's public defender nudges him to quiet down. _Smart man_.

"Bailiff, please take Ms. Swan's bill of sale and hand it to me. ADA Johnson, I think I've heard enough on the stolen property charge, and I have sufficient proof from Officer Cullen's report about the DUI. I'm ready to make my judgment." The bailiff gives the bill of sale to the judge, which she reviews for a moment. It must be in order because she nods her head approvingly.

"Mr. Hale, on the stolen property charge I believe that you were in possession of property not belonging to you—"

"But, your Honor, I can't steal from my girl—" I see Sweet Isabella shift on her feet a little uncomfortably.

"Mr. Green, keep your client quiet or I will have him restrained," Judge Hardgrove demands.

The public defender puts his right hand on Jetpup's shoulder, but Jetpup shrugs it off in what appears to be anger.

"As I was saying, on the stolen property charge, I believe that there was some sort of relationship between Mr. Hale and Ms. Swan. Therefore, I'm dismissing that charge. The property, however, will be returned to Ms. Swan. On the DUI charge, I have found you guilty, and you are hereby sentenced to sixty days in county jail and placed on a ninety-day probationary period."

She bangs her gavel, marking the end to our case.

"Docket number 041547 is now closed. Docket number 042379," the court clerk announces.

The bailiff returns the bill of sale and gold chain to Sweet Isabella.

I look at my watch and realize the entire proceeding onlytook about twenty minutes. In twenty minutes, I have come to two conclusions: I like the scent of strawberry and Sweet Isabella's lilting voice is like water to this thirsty man's soul.

ADA Johnson returns to her table and readies herself for the next case while Jetpup is handcuffed.

"Bird, wait for me. I'll be out soon," Jetpup shouts as he's taken away.

Since I'm as nosy as they come, I slow my exit from the court to hear what her response is to her "boyfriend." I'm so glad I wait around.

"You're such a turkey. And just so we are clear, you and I are _so_ over!" And with that, she flounces from the courtroom. I'm left with my mouth hanging open because I'm wondering where my Sweet Isabella disappeared to.

I hurry like a fool trying to catch up with the fast-walking Ms. Swan. Outside in the sweltering heat, my body tries to make the adjustment from the very cool building to the current air temperature outside. I look to my left, then right, in hopes of seeing the colors of her jersey dress. I knew my photographic memory would come in handy.

"Ms. Swan. Ms. Swan!" I shout. No response. Not even a turn of her head. Her back continues to be out of my reach.

"Ms. Swan!" I say, running after her. Those foot patrol duties are coming in handy because she sure is a fast walker.

I finally catch up to her but, embarrassingly, I'm a little out of breath. I can feel small beads of sweat beginning to pop out of my pores. To ward off the heat again, I loosen my tie. I see a perplexed look on her face, so once I catch my breath, I know I have to come up with a legitimate reason for why I am stopping her. And those reasons can't be _you sure have a mouth on you, Ms. Swan_ or _I'll overlook your stupidity for hooking up with Jetpup if you please—PLEASE!—tell me you're older than what I think you are_.

Yeah, I better think fast on my feet. She's starting to look at me like I'm an old creeper attempting to steal her virtue.

I have to think of a plausible reason why a police officer would want to speak to a witness, especially after said witness (and case) was dismissed. Is she still considered a witness? Who the heck knows! She's got me so confused that if you were to ask me my address right now I wouldn't even be able to tell you. The stolen property case was dismissed, but now I have a mild case of Ms. Swan-itis.

"Um, you forgot to have your item inspected."

"What?" she asks as she shields her eyes from the sun to look up at me.

So, to be clear, first there was her scent, then her voice, and now her eyes have me intrigued I'm struck dumb when I see her eyes for the very first time. I'm hit with irises the color of the smoothest sherry liqueur and pupils the color of molten chocolate. The _good_ kind of chocolate. Like, _Godiva_® chocolate. I give myself a mental shake for what is now the millionth time since being in her presence today in an attempt to loosen my tongue.

I'm not a man that gets tongue-tied. For God's sake, I met Robert De Niro a couple of months back when our department was chosen to provide security detail for the cast during the promotion of _Taxi Driver_. I shook the man's hand and was not the least bit bothered by his fame. But this little girl has me discombobulated. Actually, it's a little irritating and a lot frightening, but I won't deal with the latter yet.

I look down at her and say more briskly than I intend, "The arresting officer, which is me, by the way, must inspect the witness's, that's _you_, item to make sure the way it was entered during the booking process is the way it was returned."

_Cullen, do not even acknowledge that you're pulling this pile of garbage out of your ass._ I only hope my eyes look as confident as my voice sounds.

My confidence must be infallible because she states, "Oh. I didn't know that. Here it is."

I take my time inspecting the chain—and her, trying to really gauge her age—while she looks around nervously.

"Hey, I'm an officer. I'm not going to do anything to you, you know. Not unless you break the law," I tell her jokingly. But apparently she is not in the mood for a joke or does not get that I made a joke because she continues to avoid making eye contact.

"Yeah, um, okay," she says as she bites her lip. _Ladies and gentlemen_, I think to myself, _give Officer Cullen a gold star because I've narrowed her age to no more than fifteen years old_. Sure, she's got her own style, which could mature her a little, then there's that lilt in her voice I've never heard before, even from women my age and older, and she's got a smart-alecky mouth. But that move right there—the biting of the lip—is classic teenager. And my trusty, built-in gut instinct is back and in working order. I pat myself on my mental back and instruct my audience to give me a standing ovation for pinpointing her age. She's fifteen. Fifteen! A damn minor. I return her chain and come to a very firm conclusion about the matter. What matter, you ask? The matter of my mild case of Ms. Swan-itis. She's cute, got a voice that kills, and eyes that make me want to bare my soul to her. But, nope, no way. I'm not going to jail for her.

"The chain looks exactly as it was recorded, Ms. Swan," I tell her brusquely.

I'm peeved that she doesn't dress and sound more like the teeny-bopper she is. I blame her for tempting me into seeking something more from her when she isn't even legal to do anything with me. Plus, I should be heading home.

"Well, thanks. I'm glad to have it back."

A couple of months ago I completed a physical, which is standard for me to do given the nature of my job. I was assured I have 20/10 vision, which, not boasting, is like having eagle-eye vision. I was also told that my hearing is so good that I can hear the drop of a pin inside a dense forest. So, to say I cannot be sure what in the world Ms. Swan mumbles gives me pause to reconsider the veracity of those so-called trained physicians. I _think_ she mumbles "Whatever he's pushing, I'm not buying. Chain, my foot."

I look around at the other people swirling around us because surely she was referring to the hot dog vendor across the way from us. But then again, the vendor doesn't have a chain. I should know. I have 20/10 vision! I stand to my full height of six feet three inches and inflate my chest, just so she knows I'm no puny little boy like Jetpup, if that's the sort she's use to dealing with. No way was I going to let this imp call me, a five-year tenured officer of the law, out.

"Well, Ms. Swan, have a good day and guard your possessions carefully next time. It's not wise to let unsavory people get a hold of your possessions," I scold her as if I'm her father.

_Come on, Cullen, wrap this up, go see your boy, and get ready for tonight_. Maybe I can call Bonnie. She's always down for a good time. Have some drinks at Lounge 57 and see where the night leads us.

Her response to my well-intended advice jars me out of my internal musings and, again, she intrigues me with what comes out of her mouth.

"My possessions are always well guarded and only given out to a select few, Officer," she tells me cheekily with a wink.

Before I can comprehend _and_ process _and _comment on her statement, she's gone. I begin to acknowledge that there just might be something about jailbait Ms. Swan. I mean, she's neither a Little Miss nor Sweet Isabella—not by that damn comment. My very mild case of Ms. Swan-itis is elevated to severe.

Ah, that mouth. When she told Jetpup it was over, I wanted to get to know her. When she called me out (I think), I wanted to strangle her. But when she told me about her possessions, I knew she had to be mine. I didn't know how long it would take, but she'd be mine.

That's how my love story with Ms. Swan begins.

**1970s terms**1** used in this chapter:**

turkey - idiot

**Author's Note:**

Are you guys still with me? Should I continue? Let me know. Please review.

The songs are the chapter titles and are either from Izzy's or Cullen's POV. I was very diligent, I think, in picking songs that identifies who's speaking and/or what they will be facing or experiencing in the chapter. You will not see at the beginning of each chapter EPOV or BPOV written. For the character's biographies, what they look like, what they wore and other general interests about _The Songs of Our Lives_, check out .com.

I'd like to thank the ladies over at Sparkly Red Pen for their wonderful beta services. This story** needs** the fantastic voluntary assistance of JaspersDestiny, my Technical Beta, who's teaching me about the proper use of conversation tags and how to use em dashes; and MissJanuary, my Creative Beta, who's tells me when a chapter does not flow with the overall story or walks me off a ledge because I'm going crazy over reviews or lackluster interest in my little story. They both have their work cut out for them.

As an aside, I received an anonymous review stating this person interest in the story but the reviewer mentioned never reading Cheaterward, which this story has, and how they cannot read a story with major character deaths, which the story has. In all honesty, I considered changing the character's death storyline in hopes that more people will read beyond chapter one. But my Creative Beta reminded me that I should be true to the story in my head. So, for those of you who have read beyond chapter two and have either chosen to follow this story, set up story alerts or dropped me a review, I truly thank you and appreciate your readership. Keep with it. It's angsty but soooo good, if I do say so myself :)

Again, this story is on FanFiction under my penname luvtwilight4eva and on The Writer's Coffee Shop, under my penname twilightlover2. The story on both sites belongs to me and is written by me. Same story and content but different pennames. No need to report me to the either site's Administrators for plagiarism.

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	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 ~ Sixteen Candles (by The Crests)

Oh, I love you so

Sixteen candles make a lovely light

But not as bright as your eyes tonight

(As your eyes tonight, oh)

Blow out the candles

Make your wish come true

For I'll be wishing that you love me, too

(That you love me, too)

You're only sixteen (sixteen)

But you're my teenage queen

(You're my queen)

You're the prettiest

Loveliest girl I've ever seen

(I've ever seen, oh)

Sixteen candles in my heart will glow

Forever and ever for I love you so

(For I love you so)

You're only sixteen (sixteen)

But you're my teenage queen

(You're my queen)

Oh, you're the prettiest

Loveliest girl I've ever seen

(I've ever seen, oh)

Sixteen candles in my heart will glow

Forever and ever for I love you so

(For I love you so)

For I love you so

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight_, and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Sixteen Candles_ and all other songs in this chapter are owned by their respective songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Monday, September 13, 1976**

Yes! Yes! Finally! Today is my birthday. The only thing putting a damper on my day is the fact that I'm leaving next Monday, but I won't think of that now. Today is my birthday.

"Argh!" I loudly scream into my pillow that I place over my head while kicking my legs in the air.

I jump up and head to the only bathroom in our house and look at myself in the mirror. Yep, I definitely look different.

I stare deep into the mirror at my reflection and whisper, "Yep, Izzy, you're officially a woman," with a giddy smile.

"No, you are not, young lady," my mother states from the doorway of the bathroom.

"Ekk," I squeak, clutching my heart. Honest to goodness, I did not see or even hear her approaching the bathroom. How in the world does she sneak up on me like that?

"Mom, where did you come from?" I whisper-yell, simply out of fright. You don't yell at Renee M. Swan. Not if you value your life, that is.

"I'm here and everywhere, all at the same time, Izzy. Haven't I told you that before?" She smiles and kisses my cheek.

"Yeah," I respond glumly.

"Happy birthday, baby."

I can't wipe the smile of my face today, even if I try. Not that I want to. I'm tempted to ask the same question I've been asking since June when I was told about September twentieth. My friends and I made plans back in June for this momentous day...er, weekend. All I need to know is the answer. So, I ask my mom the question for the millionth time this week.

"What did you and Charles decide?"

"Young lady, you will be respectful of your elders," she answers. "If I have to tell you one more time..." she says as she comes toward me, wagging a finger in my face. I wisely back up from the force known as Renee so she knows I'm no harm.

"Okay, sheesh! Lighten up, Mom. I just want to know if you and Dad made a decision about Friday night."

She doesn't answer me and instead heads downstairs. Walking a few paces behind her, I see my brother Harim sitting at the table in the kitchen with a book in his hands. He always has a book in hands, no matter what room he's in or task he's doing.

The kitchen is the second place in our home that always makes me smile. The sunny yellow cabinets, which bring out more of the light green, yellow-green, and white colors in the chain-link patterned wallpaper, give me an unusual sense of calm. Our kitchen has all the latest gadgets, like a microwave oven and dishwasher. About a year ago, my mother finally convinced Charles that both items would improve her housekeeping skills, thereby freeing up her time to do more. By more she meant further waiting on Charles hand and foot. I think the "more" from Mom is what convinced Charles and not necessarily the speed said items would allow us to wash dishes or reheat food. We rarely use the microwave because Charles believes it sends signal waves to the government (and that's not something he relishes) and my mother has been known to say, "Why run up the electric bill when I am blessed with two dishwashers like you and Harim?"

But I digress.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she greets Harim, kissing the top of his head.

"Good morning, Mom. Good morning, sister." I mouth a good morning in response to him.

I have no clue how Harim and I are related. Apparently we come from the same mother and same father, but we are like night and day. For instance, when our mother tells him to be home after school no later than 3 o'clock, he's home exactly at that time. She knows not to even ask that of me because, simply out of pure rebellion (even if there's_ nothing_ going on _anywhere_), I'll stroll in the house at 10 pm. I mean, what's the point? Harim is everyone's golden boy; the one with a bright future because of his perfect grades. Me? I'm the wild child, the rebel, the good-for-nothing. The one sleeping with every Tom, Dick, and sometimes Nancy—even though I've only recently lost my virginity.

It doesn't matter that I get good grades as well. I have a label the size of the Grand Canyon on my back! In everyone's mind, I would be lucky not to be pregnant by my eighteenth birthday. My mother's friends frequently call her about the gossip milling around Sunvalley about me. During said calls, she'd listen but never say a word, just momentary hmming and tsking. I know this because I've seen her various reactions during phone calls with her girlfriends, especially those calls where I'm the main star. Whenever I ask if Ms. So and So is coming over, she casually tells me, "Oh, we no longer speak as we use to, honey." She's lost a lot of friends because she refuses to give up on me.

That's my mother. My _defender_. In her eyes, Harim and I are no different, though in my eyes, we are. We're both worthy of her protection and undying love even if one of us, me in particular, can be wayward and contrary—or so my father has been known to describe me.

But back to the matter at hand. "Mom," I whine, "what did you guys decide?"

She ignores me and begins to set out the items to make breakfast.

"Mom, I've followed all your rules since June and you guys are already sending me away. This is the one thing I'm asking for—no, begging for! _Please?_" I clasp my hands together in prayer and give her my best lost puppy dog look. I mean, who doesn't like to rescue lost puppies?

"Get that look off your face and hand me the eggs." Well, damn, I don't think Renee Swan likes puppies, not even lost puppies, which is a shame because there goes my plans. Guess I'll have to call the girls and let them know, I think disappointedly.

In less than ten minutes, she's scrambled eggs, fried bacon, and made toast. I'm pulled out of my reverie when I see Harim closing the refrigerator door with the orange juice in his hands.

Mustering the last bit of nerve I have, I try one more time. I mean, she is the one that taught me nothing beats a trail but a failure.

"Mom," I whine.

"Izzy," she mock-responds back.

I know what she's trying to do. "Mom..."

"Izzy, sit, eat, and enjoy. It's your birthday, for goodness' sake."

I begrudgingly plop myself down on the chair and wolf down the eggs. My mother makes the best eggs. Truthfully, she can make dog food (which I have never eaten, thank God) taste like the world's best meal. You see my affinity for dogs?

As my mother heads out of the kitchen, she turns around and whispers with a sly grin, "Oh, Izzy, the answer is yes."

I choke on my juice because that was the last answer I expected. I yell, "He said yes!?" This has just become the best birthday ever.

In my excitement, I start humming and dancing to _Sixteen Candles_ by The Crests. The song is a little before my time, but what can I say? Charles and I listen to a lot of his older vinyl record collections. Today is a good day, and with that thought, I finish my delicious breakfast.

**Saturday, September 18, 1976 **

"This place is blazin'," I shout to Lissa and Nikki. I have to shout because Cafe Jenny is crowded (as it usually is), hot (as it usually is), and DJ M is spinning all the latest songs (as he usually does).

Cafe Jenny is a disco club my friends and I frequent a lot. The club's owner, Cleve, is always nice to us and looks out for us. This place is usually for the twenty-one and older crowd, but Cleve took a liking to me the night Jetpup brought me here. I was on a roll that night. I remember it like it was yesterday. Jetpup was at the bar badgering the bartender for a drink, but he wouldn't give Jetpup anymore because he thought Jetpup had had enough already. Jetpup was getting a little rowdy and loud, something he does a lot. When he gets like this, he whines like a little kid trying to get his way. I made the situation chillax by telling a joke. One turned into another, and by the end of the night, everyone left at the club was howling at my jokes. You know, I never did figure out if I was simply that funny or if they were all just drunk. Anyway, since that night, Cleve lets me and my friends in the club even though we're underage.

Cafe Jenny is always wicked cool because only the best dressed bunnies are allowed in. I take a quick look around and see people in Diane von Furstenberg, Halston, Yves St. Laurent, and the like. My girls and I look good. Lissa and Nikki have on Diane von Furstenberg deep V-necked, wrap dresses in red and green, respectively. I'm wearing a deep V-necked white jumpsuit with my favorite pair of ombre-colored glasses. They are my favorite pair because last year on a business trip to California Charles brought them back for me. It's one of the few gifts he's ever given me.

Like I said, we look hot!

There are three things I love about Cafe Jenny: their drinks can put hair on your chest, it's so strong but so good; the men, the workers, and patrons are easy on the eyes, and the music selections…there are just no words.

Like right now, as I'm heading to the dance floor, the deejay is playing my song, _Saturday Night_ by Bay City Rollers. My friends and I are not shy and we can dance, so we head to our favorite spot on the dance floor—in the middle, right under the club's biggest mirrored ball—and sway our bodies to the beat, trying to show each other up with our latest moves.

"Hey, I'm gonna get something to drink," I yell at Lissa and Nikki after dancing non-stop for what seems like about an hour. They nod their heads, and I push my way to the bar. I adjust my jumpsuit so the itty bitties are prominently on display. Your personality will not get you a drink around here! Even itty bitties get you noticed. That and money. Since I was short on the latter, I was relying on the former.

"Say, Jack, let me get a Harvey Wallbanger," I shout once I catch the eye of the bartender, who's looking at my cleavage. See, I told ya!

As I'm about to reach for my sunshine goodness, I hear, "Let me get that for you, sweet thing." I look to my left and see the most garish-looking man, and mentally I call him _Canary_. Truth be told, I am dumbfounded how Canary got into Cafe Jenny. John, their bouncer, is usually more selective. Canary is wearing a white deep V-necked shirt, where I see nothing but an expanse of unruly chest hair, and a canary yellow (yes, canary yellow—the same color as the drink he's holding hostage in his hand) bell bottom pant suit.

Can you say _ew_ and _no_? Just no! Everything is wrong about him, and he's got nothing right except the fact that he apparently wants to buy me a drink. But no free drink is worth being ogled by someone who looks to be about Charles's age. Again, I wonder who's at the door letting people like Canary in tonight…

Remembering that I only have twenty dollars on me—and that's for me to use to get something to eat after we leave the club—I look longingly at the drink. I think he sees the thirst in my eyes, or guesses about my money situation, because his eyes take on a different type of glint. That's it, Izzy, do not even think about that free drink, I tell myself.

"Keep on steppen," I tell Canary. I hope I can get the bartender's attention again.

"Little girl, the drink is already paid for. Why don't we go somewhere quieter so you can drink it and we can get to know each other?"

"No, thank you," I tell him nastily.

"Are you sure, little girl? It's free and good. Did I mention it's free?" That leech!

"Listen here, cheese weasel, I didn't ask you to pay for my drink. I can get my own!"

He leans in closer to my ear and I can smell that he's been trippin' out on more than just alcohol.

"Didn't your mother teach you to repay the kindness of strangers with gratitude and not attitude?"

I just want to get away from Canary, but I can't see any of the club's security guys. The bartender is busy and my friends are nowhere in sight.

"I think the lady said she didn't want your drink," a smooth velvety voice insists.

We—me and Canary, that is—both spin around to locate the owner of the voice. And I'm struck by his face; it looks so familiar. His name is on the tip of my tongue, but my brain refuses to function properly. My brain won't...er, can't function because the last time I heard _that_ voice, it certainly did not match _this_ body that is in front of me now. I just know it wasn't. Because if that body and that voice had been together when I met them last, trust me, I would know his name.

Let me paint the picture: the Voice with the Body (yeah, that's what I'm calling him since I have no real name for him and I think my name is much better than whatever he's really called) has on a dark brown and beige tweed polyester leisure suit with a beige turtleneck. Can you say _hot_?!

"Hey, man, mind your own business. This is between me and my little lady here," Canary man says as he tightens his hold on my upper arms, intending to drag me away from the bar.

But The Voice with the Body steps in front of us, flashing something shiny. "I suggest you unhand her if you don't want to spend a night in the cooler, if you know what I mean."

He's a fuzz...a freakin' cop! And now I remember where I've met him before. Court. Court in June. Court in June because of stupid Jetpup. When would my momentary lapse in judgement about messing with Jetpup stop biting me in the ass?

He's a freakin' fuzz! Yuck!

Canary throws up his hands and turns his body to walk away. But he seems to have a change of heart because he turns around. Fuzz the Body (yeah, that's his new name because he's _so_ not The Voice with the Body right now) moves into a defensive position almost in front of me. Canary is just able to grab my...er..._his_ drink from the top of the bar.

Oh, no...not the Harvey. Damn it. I hate when men do that.

I sigh and turn toward the bar again.

As I'm about to attempt to get the bartender's attention, I sense Fuzz the Body near me. I wonder why he's still lurking around.

"Yes?"

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"What's a fuzz doing at Cafe Jenny?" That's the most important question, at least to me.

"I come to this establishment often, Ms. Swan," he says with a smirk. I'll admit the smirk makes him look less like a fuzz and more like he's just left a photo shoot for a magazine ad or something. Okay, okay...so, maybe even without the smirk he still looks like he's just left a photo shoot.

"I wouldn't think they'd let squares in here. This place is usually hip. I may have to start hanging someplace else."

"Are you trying to say I'm too old?" I get the feeling he's not talking just about being at the club, but I'm a little thrown because I see the slight crinkle of his eyes and I think I like them. I think I like them a lot, actually, even though I'm not the kind of person that notices such things.

I turn my back to him to get the bartender's attention again and hope that Fuzz the Body senses I'm trying to tune him out.

He touches the little exposed area between my neck and my shoulder and I feel a zap. Not quite like static shock, but it's a zap of _something_ I'd never felt before. I turn my head quickly toward him as I see him pulling away his hand as if he felt the zap as well.

"Have a drink with me," he states.

My mind is still on the zap, so I don't see the bartender approaching us. As my mushy brain begins to come back to the here and now, I tell him, "You don't even know my drink of choice."

"Tommy, a Manhattan for the lady and myself please?" he says as he hands Tommy, whose name I just learned after all these months of coming to Cafe Jenny, a bill.

"I don't drink Manhattans," I say nastily.

"You don't drink Manhattans because you've never had a Manhattan," he states correcting my pronunciation of the drink. It was true. I'd never had a Manhattan before, but I wouldn't let Fuzz the Asshole (yeah, I changed his name and it should be obvious why the hell I did!) know that.

Well, I never! I want to say a snappy one-liner that would give him a mental black eye, but nothing comes to mind. It seems all my brain can think about is Fuzz the Asshole's crinkly eyes and the attention he's getting from the other patrons. I look around the bar as he's waiting for our drinks and I see he head nods most of the men. And the women are practically drooling at him. I mean, hello, I'm standing beside him, but the women are acting like I'm not even here. For all they know, he could be on a date with me, but they don't seem to care. I mean, I don't either, so whatever! I just want to taste this free Manhattan and get the hell away from Fuzz the Asshole.

I look around at the men he acknowledges. There's Big Man, who's known as the muscle for the Too Short Crew (this crew did not get their name because of their height). There's JJ Jackson, brother of the Mayor, and Mr. Johns, owner of Clean It Your Way, Upper Salem's very first laundromat. Who is this cat? I hope he's not a crooked cop. I've had enough of being on the wrong side of the law to last me a lifetime. Go figure that I'd pick my first boyfriend and lover to be the county thief!

My couple of foolish months with Jetpup is getting me a one-way ticket to Portsmore Academy for Girls for the next two years. No way am I hooking up with someone else who might cost me more jail time or time away from Upper Salem. I laugh at my joke—you know, 'cause he's a cop—but in this instance my jailers would be Charles and Renee Swan. As I think about that depressing thought, Tommy pushes my Manhattan toward me on a napkin and I start to drink from it greedily.

"Slow down, Ms. Swan. The night has just begun."

"I know how to drink, Fuzz." I sneer at him but slow my chugging and instead sip the Manhattan. Hmm, this is good. Smooth, and not overly strong. It's definitely not trying to be strong, it simply is a strong drink. Kind of how I like my men. As I sip my Manhattan, I think about my random thought about likening my taste in men to my new favorite drink, the Manhattan.

"Oh, is that right?" He laughs.

And I totally have a brain fart because I cannot believe I said most of that aloud. My mother keeps telling me, "Izzy, watch your mouth..."

"Izzy, please don't watch your mouth," he says with a laugh, again.

I shake my head in embarrassment and whisper, "Did you hear all of that?" I really can't believe he can hear my internal monologues out loud. And with that realization, I slowly put down my drink because surely that's the culprit for my outbursts.

He shakes his head and laughs. I feel like he's laughing _at_ me. That he sees me as a little girl playing at being a grown-up that can't handle her liquor.

"Let's dance."

I'm still imagining how he sees me as a little girl, and because of that, I have no interest to remain in his presence. "No, thanks. I've got to get back to my friends."

"You are with friends. _Me_. Come on. Or maybe you can't dance…" he says challengingly.

"I can dance circles around you, old man. I'm not sure _you_ can keep up."

"Let's see if I can keep up, then."

He grabs my hand and makes a beeline for the dance floor. I have no choice but to try to keep up with him. At 5'2", my legs have nothing on his more than 6' stride. I want to tell him to slow down, but I'm sure he wouldn't hear me over the loud music.

When we get to the dance floor, I'm feeling a little intimidated and a lot awkward—two emotions I rarely experience, at least not together. I must look a little unsure to him because he chuckles and takes my hands in his, guiding them to hang loosely around his neck, before he places his hands on my lower back and takes the lead. We dance to some of my favorites: _Still the One_ by Orleans, _Right Back Where We Started From_ by Maxine Nightingale, _Evil Woman_ by the Electric Light Orchestra, _Dream Weaver_ by Gary Wright, _You Sexy Thing_ by Hot Chocolate, _You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine_ by Lou Rawls, and _Do You Know Where You're Going To?_ by Diana Ross.

As the songs switch from mid-tempo to slower songs, it feels as if we're the only ones on the dance floor. He's an amazing dance partner, leading when necessary but still giving me room to do my own thing. Our bodies are so in sync. It's as if this isn't our first time dancing together.

The deejay signals that the club is about to close soon. I had no idea we'd spent so much time on the dance floor together. In my peripheral vision, I see some patrons heading to the bar for last drinks while the others head to the dance floor for their final spin of the night.

Holding more tightly to Fuzz the Body—while dancing, he's shown me he's not an old man, so I'm back to my original nickname—I casually move just a little bit closer to him. The smooth baritone voice of the lead singer from The Manhattans fills the room.

_This has got to be the saddest day of my life  
I called you here today for a bit of bad news  
I won't be able to see you anymore  
Because of my obligations, and the ties that you have_

Their song _Kiss and Say Goodbye_ is fitting for two reasons: I'm sad this is our last dance for the night and we won't be seeing each other anymore since I'm moving to another state in two days.

I close my eyes and lose myself in the song. It's like we're the only couple in the room. Gently, I put my head on his shoulder and he rests his chin on my forehead. I try not to allow my leaving in two days distract me from what has become my best dance to date. As the last of the notes blare from the deejay booth, we slowly pull apart and stare in each other's eyes as if we're both seeing each other, truly, for the very first time.

"Um..." I begin.

"I would like..." he says over me.

We both smile a little, realizing we spoke at the same time. Him, while rubbing the back of his neck and me, while looking down at the floor.

We never get to say another word because Lissa comes out of nowhere. "Bird, where have you been? We've been looking for you for the last thirty minutes!"

"Um..." I begin again as I see Fuzz the Body take a discreet step back away from me. "I've been right here."

"Let's Audi 5000. I'm beat," Nikki says. I see Lissa nudge Nikki as she notices something is off with me. I'm desperately trying to get my emotions together after that dance.

Lissa, who I can really kiss right now, says, "We'll give you some time to...you know. Meet us out front in fifteen minutes, Bird."

"Okay." I barely say the word out loud.

"Well...um...yeah, thanks for the dance and the...uh...Manhattan. I have to go now."

"Yes?"

He sounds like he's asking me for something. But I'm not sure, and I could be reading more into what he's said. His intense stare cements my eyes to him and my feet to the ground. I can't move from my spot. Actually, I don't _want_ to move. I don't want to go outside to Lissa and Nikki because I feel as if I move from this spot, the thing that is supposed to happen...that thing that I desperately want to happen...won't. And I can't bear that.

"Um...you made my birthday really special. Thanks."

"Today is your birthday?"

"No." I take a moment to clear my throat because all this stuttering and stammering on my part seems a little childish. "No, it was four days ago, but you made tonight special." I turn my back to leave. I'm most definitely not ready to leave, but I have no reason to stay either.

"Ms. Swan," he says as he steps closer to me, "how old did you turn on your birthday?"

"I...um...I just turned sixteen." Damn, the stuttering and stammering is back in full effect. It's not me; it's him and his damn jade-colored eyes that have turned my brain into a ball of goo.

"Sixteen?" he repeats incredulously. I'm confused why my age is such a shock when I know I look like a typical teenager. I think he mutters, "Jailbait for sure, Cullen." My mother often tells me that I only hear what I want to, so I'm not too sure what he really says.

"Yeah, well, okay then. I guess I'll see you around in maybe two years." I turn to leave again.

"Two years!?"

Honestly, he needs to stop with the redundant questions. I may start to think he cares, and there is no way he cares whether I'm leaving Upper Salem or not, right? After all, we've only just met.

"Where...um, I'm sorry...where are you going?" he asks, still moving closer to me.

"I'm going to a boarding school in two days."

"Really?"

"Yeah—hey, where are you going?" I ask as he turns his back.

"Don't leave. Give me a second," he shouts as he walks towards the deejay booth. I see him leaning in and whispering something in the deejay's ear. He also hands him a bill. What is with this man and bills? Really, how much does a fuzz make?

By this time, I've backed away to the edge of the dance floor, near the exit. That's when I hear the first strands of The Crests' _Sixteen Candles_ come on. I look down at the floor hoping that my Cheshire cat-like smile is not readily seen.

He extends his right hand toward me and I look at it questioningly.

"Can't let the birthday girl leave without a birthday dance, now can I?" he teases.

I shake my head and reach for him just as the lead singer begins to croon out the infamous first line.

He tugs me toward his embrace and we begin to twirl. As we dance, I see that we are the only couple...er, two people left on the dance floor. In my peripheral vision I see Tommy stop cleaning the bar area. Cleve has come from the back office, and the last of the patrons are looking at us. They seem to be transfixed by us. Our chemistry is undeniably strong. You can almost taste the envy from the people around us. The few women left want to be me and the men want to be him. This is the fairy tale I weave in my head. I mean, really, what man would want to be with _me_?

"By the way, Ms. Swan, my name is Edward Anthony Masen Cullen. _Officer_ Cullen," he whispers in my ear.

"My name is Isabella Marie Swan," I tell him.

"I know," he says while twirling me around as the song crescendos and comes to a close.

"I have to go now."

"I know."

"I wish I had more time, Officer Cullen."

"I'll find you again, Ms. Swan."

I head out to meet my friends, knowing that I'll always remember this night. I'm not sure what he means by _again_, though. But for some reason, I don't doubt his words.

**1970s terms**1** used in this chapter:**

Audi 5000 - depart quickly/leaving now

blazin' - hip or hot

bunny - a cute girl

cat - man/person

cheese weasel - annoying/obnoxious idiot

cooler- prison/jail

fuzz -cop/police officer

keep on steppen - you're not worth my time

"Say, Jack" - phrase used to get someone's attention, like "Excuse Me"

squares - someone not cool or caught up with the trends

trippin' - going nuts on drugs or something else

wicked cool - very cool

**Author's Note:**

For those who reviewed and/or added _The Songs of Our Lives_ to your FF subscription alerts, I thank you. As you know Sparkly Red Pen is a marvelous site for help with perfecting any story that lives in your head. They clean up your messes while teaching you a thing or two about overused dialogue tags, sticking with the story you envision despite criticisms and hyphenating compound words. At least that's what my Technical Beta, JaspersDestiny, and Creative Beta, MissJanuary, has shown me thus far. I've learned a lot but I still have ways to go and they both continue to have their work cut out for them.

Again, this story is on FanFiction under my penname, luvtwilight4eva and The Writer's Coffee Shop, under the penname twilightlover2. The story on both sites belong to me and is written by me. Same story title/content but different pen name. No need to report me to the either site's Administrators for plagiarism.

Please, please (that sounds like a James Brown song, doesn't it?) check out my blog,  .com, for songs, looks (you'll get a kick out of what Canary actually wore) and much more about The Songs of Our Lives.

Psst…I have the edited version of chapter 4 already to go. Show me some love via the reviews and I promise it'll be up her lickty split .

Hope you enjoyed.

1 


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 ~ At Last (by Etta James)

At last

My love has come along

My lonely days are over

And life is like a song

Oh yeah yeah

At last

The skies above are blue

My heart was wrapped up in clover

The night I looked at you

I found a dream that I could speak to

A dream that I can call my own

I found a thrill to press my cheek to

A thrill that I have never known

Oh yeah yeah

You smiled, you smiled

Oh and then the spell was cast

And here we are in heaven

for you are mine.

At Last

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight_, and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics to _At Last_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

And I find her. She never knows how I find her at Portsmore Academy for Girls, but I find my Ms. Swan.

**Monday, September 27, 1976 **

Sitting at the mahogany dining table with my favorite Geha 707 stainless steel fine nib fountain pen in my hand—given to me as a gift from my father when I graduated from the police academy—and a writing pad, I begin my letter. I've waited a week so I wouldn't flobber my way through Ms. Swan's letter like some immature pup that's just getting a taste of his first piece. Even if that's the way she makes me feel.

_My Dearest Ms. Swan,_

_I hope this letter reaches you in the best of health. You must be wondering how I'm able to find where you are. Let's just say I have my sources. So, you're at a boarding school? When you told me where you were headed, I was shocked. Did you get a scholarship to attend or are you there for some other reason? I know that your older brother still attends school at Upper Salem Boy's School. Yes, I know you have a brother, and yes, I know what school he goes to. I hope that's not creeping you out._

_I certainly hope I'm not because you've fascinated me since I saw you in that knee-length red, white, and blue dress with the blue scarf. You know, the dress you wore to court in June. I didn't mention my photographic memory? No? Well, we didn't get to do much talking either in June or a couple weeks ago. So you wouldn't know about my superior skills._

I'm just teasing you...

_It's hard for me to believe I first saw you more than three months ago. As small as Upper Salem County is, plus given your boyfriend's penchant for stealing, our paths should have crossed before now. (That was a joke, Ms. Swan, and I hope you're laughing.)_

_The night at Cafe Jenny, my goal was to unwind from a very long day. And there you were. Quite unexpectedly, we were again in the same place at the same time. Just so you know, I can understand why Jetpup asked you to wait for him. You are one consuming young lady, Ms. Swan._

_I've had to pull some pretty big strings to find out the little that I know about you. But I just had to find you. You never told me the name of the boarding school you were going to, but as you can see, not knowing a piece of information won't stop me. Again, I must sound like a creeper to you. Let me assure you, I'm not. You have my word as a man of the law. _

_I hope after this letter that you decide to not be so evasive with information about yourself._

_One question, out of all the questions that are scattered throughout this letter, that I need an answer to is: what did you do to make your parents send you three hours away? I have a hunch, but you know...tell me anyway._

_Okay, so enough about how I'm kind of a creeper/stalker when it comes to you. How about something light and fluffy? _

_I was born in Kingington County, about five hours from Upper Salem, to Carlisle Edward Anthony Cullen and Elizabeth Jackson. They never married; she was young and he was...wild. He's a detective now in New York City. Like you, I have siblings, but unlike you, my exact sibling count is unknown to me. Like I mentioned, Ed, my father, was a wild man. Speaking of little ones, I would like you to know that I have a four year old son. His birthday is in October. He's my world._

_If anything I've written so far turns you off, put the letter down and discard it. But I hope you don't. I hope you choose to continue reading._

_Okay, so you already know my name and what I do for a living. I'm not fond of what you younger people call us police—fuzz! What kind of word is that? We are not fuzzy in feel or looks since none of the cops I know are softies. You better be glad I enjoy the sound of your voice because I would have gladly told you that I'm nobody's Fuzz. Enough of standing on my soapbox and sounding like your father, which I have no intention of becoming._

_Back to me. I have been an officer for about five years now. Can I tell you how much I love it? It's like I was born to be a police officer. I enjoy being needed, providing protection to those who need it, and I like arresting the bad guys. And a purely selfish reason, the uniform comes in handy with the ladies (just kidding). If I do say so myself, I look really good in navy blue. Yes, that's a little narcissistic of me, but it doesn't make my statement less true. (I hope you are at least smiling with me as I am writing these words.) But the main reason I love being an officer, and the camaraderie with my fellow officers and some of the higher ups. We're like a family. A family that I sorely needed. That show, The Rookies, that just got cancelled reminds me of where I'm headquartered: #13 Mobayton Police Station._

_My partner, right out of the Academy, is Bent. His real name is Luke Warris, but we call him Bent. He's one of the straightest shooters I've ever met. He says what he means and means what he says, which is very rare nowadays, if you ask me. Bent hates all kinds of corruption, injustice, and misuse of power. But what Bent hates the most are people breaking the law. _

_About three years ago, Sergeant Freeman was retiring after thirty years of service with the Upper Salem County Police Department. The boys and I took him out for a night of fun. I shouldn't be telling you this, and if you say I did I'll deny it, but the night included drinks and girls. It was Bent's first time in a gentleman's club. On the night we were there, the infamous Honeypot, all the way from her stomping ground of San Francisco, was visiting our fair city. Not that you would know, but just the mere mention of Honeypot had the seats around the stage filled so quickly you would have thought the club was giving away top-shelf liquor._

_Did I tell you that Bent was so straight-laced he'd never seen the inside of a gentleman's club before and didn't even know the goings-on of said kind of club? Well, let me tell you, when Honeypot came on stage, she turned our level-headed, straight-laced, and straight-shooting Officer Warris into the man we now all call Bent. I can't tell you anymore about how Bent became Bent since I'm honor bound by the guy code to now stop writing about the rest of the night._

_I have no idea why I told you all of that, but there you go. You officially have something to blackmail me with. That's what you do, Ms. Swan. You make me want to tell you things I've never told another person. I've never felt like this way before, and I've felt a lot of things in my twenty-six years. _

_You see how I just snuck my age in there? Well, I'm twenty-six, and I know you're sixteen. That's a big age difference. There would be all kinds of issues if we ever decided to embark on something. Let me assure that, for now, I purely want to get to know you. I am not after you for sex. Not for nothing, but that...sex, that is...I can get anywhere, anytime. So, no sex from you. _

_I would never pursue you sexually until you are both ready and of a legal consenting age. Please trust me when I say that!_

_There's a song I would like you to listen to. It's called At Last by Etta James. It's probably before your time, but it describes the hold you have on me. Since our two brief encounters, I've realized two things: I'm lonely and I've never chosen anything in my life. But I choose you. I'd like to get to know you better.._

_To be honest with you, women usually pursue me. I've never had to go after a woman before. I'm not lying or bragging. That's just how it's been for me, ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper (yeah, I just aged myself with that line). My first girlfriend, Sue, punched me in the arm one day at school and told me we were together. We were both five years old! And that's been my journey with women ever since._

_But you...you, Ms. Swan, there's something about you. I want to chase you. Even though we've only met twice and there's a ten year age difference, I know we could have a real interesting journey together. I find it absolutely strange that you, a mere sixteen year old, make me want things I've never wanted with anyone else. I'm not feeding you a line, it's simply the truth — my truth._

_Please—yes, I am eloquently requesting (or in other words, begging—and again, I hope you are smiling) that you consider me. Consider an us. Consider getting to know me and letting me get to know you. _

_Here's why you should give me a chance: I'm (still) young even though I'm older than you; I'm a man of integrity; I keep my word; I'm good looking; I have a reputable job; my pay is decent (I can at least get you a matching bracelet for that beetle chain Jetpup stole from you); I'm a nice person (just take my word for it—I'm nice); and I'm a good catch. Now, I'm no paragon of virtue, but I'm at least honest. _

_If you're worried about your parents, let me just say that mothers, not that I've met many, and fathers, again not that I've met many, all come to love and respect me. Just saying. _

_I have a lot going for me, but I feel (no, I know) that with you by my side I could experience so much more. When I saw you in Cafe Jenny, in all honesty, I was with someone else, but my eyes were fixed on you the moment I saw you in that outfit. I didn't immediately know it was you, but I felt drawn to the woman in white. I was relieved to see it was you. Like I've written, ever since June, you've been in my thoughts and the star of my dreams (and no, not creeper/sexual dreams). I had no idea how to contact you after that day in June. But I wasn't about to let that night in Cafe Jenny pass me by._

_When I touched your neck at the bar, I felt a jolt all the way up my fingertips. You've interrupted my life in such a good way, and I've not been the same since June._

_I hope you decide to write me back. While the phone would be convenient, my job schedule doesn't really allow for that luxury. I hope you don't mind writing. I certainly don't mind writing. Write whatever you like._

_At last I've met my someone. This is new territory for me, Ms. Swan, and I don't say that lightly._

_Breathlessly waiting on you,_

_Edward_

_P.S. — If you decide to write back, please do so at: #13 Mobayton Police Station, ℅ Officer Edward Cullen, P.O. Box 119, Montega, Upper Salem NY 12265._

As I seal the letter, I hear footsteps entering from the front door. I hear shuffling, and then the footsteps quicken toward my direction. I finish addressing the envelope when Em shouts, "Daddy! Where are you?"

"In the dining room, Em!"

A moment later, my little man is in the room and smiling at me. He always makes me smile. I pick him up and sit him in front of me on the table so we can stare into each other's eyes. Green eyes meet hazel before I hear more sure-footed steps enter the dining room.

"Are you hungry, Eddie?" She's the only one to ever call me Eddie. Well, besides Momma, that is. But that's another story. One day I'll tell it to you, if you still like me that is.

"I could eat," I say.

"I could eat, too," Em says. I smile because he's my little mini-me. Well, not really, since he has a lot of his mother's features, but he has my mannerisms down pat. I laugh as I ruffle his hair.

As my little man tells me about his day, I'm transfixed by the smell of dinner cooking.

The little guy and I leave the table to wash our hands, and when we come back the room has been transformed. The dinner table is set as if we were having guests over, but I knew the truth. She always does this. I sit at my place, with Em to my right and Ruthie in between us to plate our dishes. I never ask her to do this, it's just the way she serves me every meal. Once she plates my food, she does the same for Em.

I groan at my first bite. "This is so good!" It's incredible what she's able to do to a chicken in under an hour.

"Is it really?" she asks as she sits.

"It's always good. I don't know what you put in your food, woman," I say with an appreciative shake of my head.

"It's good, Mommy," Em seconds my assessment.

"I'm glad my men like my food. It does my heart good to hear that," Ruthie says with a smile. Lately her smile hasn't been reaching all the way to her eyes, but we've been doing this song and dance for so long now it's hard for me to really care why. I mean, I care, but I don't care enough to inquire about it.

We eat in silence. It's neither awkward nor the result of an argument. That's just how it's always been with us. We are silent. I'm silent about my feelings. She's silent about her expectations. We are just..._silent_. Lately, the silence is deafening.

Em belches and interrupts the silence pervading the dining room. We each stand to leave the dining table—me to get ready for work; Em to play in his room, I think; Ruthie, to take care of the dishes.

As I rifle through my drawers for the things to take with me, I remember the envelope. Walking out of our bedroom, I enter the dining room to get it from the table, where I'd last left it, but it's not there. _Ruthie must have seen the envelope and moved it to set the table_ I thought to myself. After all, I'd put it on the table to pick up Em before dinner. I spin around, trying to figure out where she could have put it. I see something white sticking out from behind the vase that's on top of the sideboard. I grab it and head back to the bedroom to finish getting dressed.

"You leaving, Eddie?" she asks me as I leave the bedroom and head toward the front door. It sounds like she's still in the kitchen.

"Yeah." I stuffed the envelope in my back pocket.

"What time do you get off?" I hear her footsteps approaching me.

I give her the same look that I've given her whenever she questions me about my whereabouts. This is how it's been since we've started—she shouldn't ask and, even if she does because she's a woman after all, I won't ever tell. Not about my goings and comings. Everything else, yes...well, she is kind of entitled to know since we do live together.

She throws up her hand in the air and mutters, "Sorry".

I know she sees the envelope in my pocket because I see her eyes take on a hard glint. Neither of us acknowledges the envelope or the change in her facial features.

"So I'll see you later, yeah?" I say to her, moving toward the door.

"Okay. Be safe. Love you."

"Yeah," I say.

I head out of the house toward my baby, my black 1971 Pontiac GTO, and realize that, for the first time since getting with Ruthie, she and I may not last this one. I mean, I've stepped out on Ruthie (and so has she), but I've always come back to her and our complicated thing. No woman has ever drawn me away from Ruthie. I know Ruthie's seen the letter, but I don't think she knows its contents. But, like everything else about me and Ruthie, she'll turn a blind eye. Because like I said, I always go back to her. To Ruthie.

I get in the driver's seat and run my hand over the steering wheel before starting and revving the engine. I just love the sound of that engine!

I turn to my favorite radio station and hear the familiar piano strums and the incredible voice of Etta James. When I hear my favorite lines, I lean back in the seat and imagine me and Ms. Swan dancing to this. I've been so lonely for so long, even with Ruthie. Ruthie, and this complicated thing of ours, is not my dream. She's not my "at last." I didn't choose Ruthie; she chose me.

_At last_ I have a dream that I can call my own. There's a possibility with Ms. Swan. There's a possibility of pursuing something that _I_ want. I'm going after Ms. Swan. I'm going to show her that I could be _her_ "at last."

And that, as they say, is that. With my decision more firm, I head off in the direction of the post office. But first, I have to make a stop at Barney's Record Store.

**Authors Note:**

My betas are JaspersDestiny (TB) and MissJanuary (CB) from Sparklng Red Pen. I thank them kindly for their speedy work and tireless efforts in turning my mumbo jumbo of a story into this great body of work that I'm proud of.

Ok, so I believe some of you will either have the "huh/what the hell?" face at the end of this chapter and some of you will have the "okay…I'm a little creeped out by Cullen but I'll try to hang with you, luvtwilight4eva" face.

For those of you who have the "huh/what the hell?" face – Izzy is sixteen years old and Cullen is twenty-six years old. Sorry there ages will not change. If that's too much for you, I understand and appreciate you trying out my little story. Cullen has a four year old son with his live-in partner, Ruthie (**Cullen and Ruthie ARE not married**). Cullen has cheated on Ruthie and so has she. Cullen lives with Ruthie but is still pursuing Izzy. If that's too much for you, I understand and appreciate you trying out my little story.

For those of you with the "okay…I'm a little creeped out by Cullen but I'll try to hang with you, luvtwilight4eva" face – Cullen is a very complicated man (as are all humans in general). His very complicated relationship with Ruthie will come to light soon. I promise. Then, you can decide if Cullen is still a douche as my TB currently feels (LOL). **Izzy and Cullen will NOT** **embark upon ANY sexual contact until she's out of school and close to her 18****th**** birthday**.

I'm off my soapbox. If you have questions/concerns, PM me. Check out the blog (it's on my FF profile page).

Lastly, this story is on FanFiction under my penname, luvtwilight4eva and The Writer's Coffee Shop, under the penname twilightlover2. The story on both sites belong to me and is written by me. Same story title/content but different pen name. No need to report me to the either site's Administrators for plagiarism.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 ~ When Will I See You Again? (by The Three Degrees)

When will I see you again?

When will we share precious moments?

Will I have to wait forever?

Or will I have to suffer and cry the whole night through?

When will I see you again?

When will our hearts beat together?

Are we in love or just friends?

Is this my beginning or is this the end?

When will I see you again?

(When will I see you again?)

When will I see you again?

Are we in love or just friends?

Is this my beginning or is this the end?

When will I see you again?

(When will I see you again?)

When will I see you again?

(When will I see you again?)

When will I see you again?

(When will I see you again?)

When will I see you again?

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight_, and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _When Will I See You Again?_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Thursday, September 30, 1976**

"Alright, boys and girls, it's 4 pm here in Cary, Ohio. Dekler, who requested this for his lady love, Janice, wants to know when he'll see her again," DJ Bobbie roars from the radio station I am listening to.

_When Will I See You Again_ by The Three Degrees begins to play, and I start to think about the dreams I've been having about Fuzz the Body. Yeah, I'm still calling him that. The dreams are both familiar _and_ confusing. Familiar because deep down I know it's Fuzz the Body even though I never see anything that tells me it's him. Confusing because he remains out of my reach in _every_ dream and I can't understand why he would. Afterward, I'm always drenched in sweat and feel like I'm out to lunch because I don't understand them. In my dreams, I know it's him. We are together, butI can't hold on to him. He's always out of my reach. For the life of me, I just can't dig it. Are my dreams where I can't hold on to Fuzz the Body and the song now playing related? I laugh at my own over-dramatic self.

In the ten days since I've been here, I've thought a lot about Fuzz the Body, much to my shame and disgust. I get giddy thinking about that night at Cafe Jenny, but then I get disgusted because I wonder why I'm wasting my time thinking about someone that hasn't even given me a second thought since that night. Sure, he was nice to me, but it was one night and now it's over. Again I tell myself that he's too old, too far away, and he probably already has someone. I tell myself he doesn't think of me like that, just so I'm not swept away with any fairy tale notions about Fuzz the Body and me. My mixed up feelings make me feel like I'm going crazy.

"Just forget about him, Izzy," I tell myself for the last time. Hopefully.

I'm interrupted by Susan, our dorm mom. "Scott, Sheen, Swan, you have mail!" Our dorm house is called Light Away, and our dorm parents are the Morrises, Susan and Shawn. He teaches Mathematics and all the science courses while she stays at home, making sure we eat, go to class on time...and all the other stuff a "mom" would do. Another one of Susan's roles is delivering us our mail.

Each floor houses girls in alphabetical order by their last name. At Light Away, there are three floors, with a total of sixty rooms. Each room can house between two to four girls, depending on the size of the room you are given. Since my name begins with an _S_, I'm on the third floor, which is fine with me. The first floor girls often complain that Shawn and Susan try to be like their real toads, which the girls hate.

I walk to the end of the hall, where Susan is, and get my mail. So far, I've received letters from Mom, Harim, Lissa, and Nikki. I know not to expect a lot from Lissa and Nikki; it's just not something they are going to keep up for two years, no matter how much we're good friends. Susan hands me a flat brown-papered package and an envelope. The handwriting doesn't look like it's from anyone I know, and even though my name's on them, I just hope Susan hasn't mixed up the mail again. That's one thing that's a no-no here: you don't mix up our mail. Since we can't make or receive phone calls unless it's something really heavy, our mail is really important to us. We're all super stoked when Susan tells us that the mail is here!

I hesitantly take the envelope and package from Susan. As I'm walking down the hallway back to my room, I notice that whoever wrote this has really good penmanship. Maybe it's from Uncle Alvin. My mother did mention that he would write. Opening my bedroom door, I walk over to my bed and sit down. Maybe I'll see what's in the package first.

"You better be something I want," I tell the package. Then I laugh at myself for talking to the package. Sometimes I can be such a spaz.

I tear through the paper and see an off-colored orange background with what looks like the word ETTA written across it. Oh, it reads, _Etta James_. It's a record! Now, who would send me an Etta James record? Maybe my father has finally written to me. Now, that would freak me the hell out! This _has_ to be from my father. Only he knows my love for good music, especially good music on vinyl records. I could tell you my thoughts on the stupid 8-track but I don't think you have the time!

As I look at the record, I grow happier the more I think that he's sent me a gift _and_ a letter.

"Eek!" I squeak, heading over to the stereo. It belongs to my roommate Rosaline Suhavey—or Rosie, as she likes to be called. The most valuable possession I brought with me is the microwave from our house that I had to sneak into our dorm room. Apparently a microwave is on the list of contraband items at Portsmore Academy. But who can survive without a microwave? I mean, where would I pop my popcorn? I'm just glad that my father gave my mother permission to take the microwave.

_At Last_ drifts from the speakers a moment later, and I hastily open the envelope.

_He must have written a book or something_. I shake my head at the weight of the envelope. It would make sense since Charles and I rarely speak, even when we're listening to his old vinyl record collection to together. _He must have so much to tell me_. Today is now the best day since I've been in this hell hole. Today is filled with a lot of unusual firsts for me: first time my father writes; first time he's sent me a gift at Portsmore Academy; first time he's had a lot to say to me. I try to hold back my tears.

Just when Etta's sultry voice sings "At Last", I read, in the neatest script imaginable:

_My Dearest Ms. Swan..._

I can't believe it. I simply can't believe it. I have no words! _He's_ written, and he's obviously sent me the Etta James record as well. I'm sad that it's not from my father, but I get all tingly seeing his handwriting.

"Well, damn..." I mutter to myself as Etta continues to sing about love found at last.

I take a deep breath and read the letter. The song ends, and there's no more of the letter to be read, but I play the song again and re-read the letter. I'm not sure how long I do this, but the next thing I know, Susan's insistent voice is calling us for dinner.

It's hard to believe that I've been reading his letter and listening to Etta James for the least three hours. Dinner at Portsmore Academy is served promptly every evening at 7 pm. You miss dinner, you go to bed hungry until breakfast. Hurriedly, I stuff the letter back into its envelope, pick up the bits of paper littering my bedside (Rosie's a bit of a neat freak), and lift the needle off the record. I put my envelope and record into my top drawer. I don't ever miss dinner! That's why my friends back home call me Bird; because I eat like a horse but am as light as a feather Basically, the name stuck after someone called me it after seeing how much I can eat, even if it kinda makes no sense.

I rush out of my room and, down the wide darkly-stained steps to the front door. I walk briskly to the dining hall. I fill my tray with meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and broccoli and then head to the cashier. I stand on my toes, since I'm on the short side, in hopes of seeing any of my friends already seated. As I'm about to pay for my food, I spot Rosie sitting in our usual place with some of the other girls. I make my way over toward them in time to hear Rosie say, "Izzy, I thought you weren't going to make it."

"Me? Miss a meal? You must be joking, right?" I act as if I've not just read the most life-altering letter. We eat, chat, and laugh, and I forget about both the envelope and Etta—or at least I try to.

**Saturday, October 1, 1976**

"So, are you going to write him back?" whispers Rosie.

We are currently sitting beside each other in the library; her to study for a Geometry test on Monday and me to do more forgetting about _them_. That's what I've been calling Fuzz's letter and package. _Them_. But Rosie won't let me forget about _them_.

I growl at Rosie.

"That's very mature of you, Izzy," she huffs in hopes of forcing me to finally tell her if I'm going to write him back. Rosie is like a dog—a very hungry dog with _this_ particular bone. Ever since showing her that damn letter, after telling her about my meeting _him_ in court in June and then again at Cafe Jenny right before coming here, she has been on my back.

"Don't be a bunny, Bird. Answer the man!" Rosie whispers forcefully.

I realize too late that maybe I should have kept my mouth shut! I choose not to respond to her, and she goes back to studying. After all, her parents are not paying Portsmore Academy all this money for their daughter to be more worried about whether her roommate will answer some stranger's letter, now are they?

**Friday, October 8, 1976**

"Are you sure you won't come with me?"

"No, Rosie. Go ahead. Enjoy the weekend with your family."

"It won't be the same without you."

"I know. I spice up all situations."

We both laugh as I help her zip her suitcase closed. I have to sit on top while she struggles to make the zippers meet. _Whew, what a relief!_ For the life of me, I can't imagine why she packs so much when she'll just be coming right back. _For goodness' sake, she comes back on Monday night_.

"You know, you totally said all of that out loud," she says with her famous Rosie laugh. When Rosie laughs, it's kind of hard to be mad or stay in whatever funky mood you're in.

"Damn, I did? I'm having a serious case of can't-keep-it-in-the-brain-itis."

"And I love you for it. How else am I to know what you're really thinking?"

I huff because sometimes _I_ don't even want to know what I'm really thinking, let alone let someone else hear my thoughts!

"Okay, off you go. Have fun, and break many hearts so you have some gossip to tell me when you come back."

She pulls me into a tight hug as if I'll never see her again, but that's just the way she hugs. "Write him. I just have a feeling about this, Izzy," she whispers in my ear before grabbing her suitcase. "Peace, love, and granola, babes." She's been saying that for the last week or so. I keep telling her that just because she says it often, doesn't mean it'll become a popular farewell. But Rosie just laughs her Rosie laugh.

I don't respond. I just wave to her to get out of here. She leaves, and I'm left to myself. I head over to my chest of drawers and see the envelope again. I don't bother to pick it up; instead I take Etta from her case. I walk over to Rosie's stereo and gently put Etta in. The piano and guitar snatch my thoughts away, and Etta's one-of-a-kind voice takes me to a whimsical place filled with found love.

I fall asleep dreaming about finally catching a hold of _him_.

**Saturday, October 9, 1976**

It has always been hard for me to make a decision. It's not that I can't or won't make one; it just takes my brain a while to be cool with whatever consequences come with the decision I make. Like when I decide to disobey my parents and go to a party they told me not to go to. A week before the party, I'm mulling over if I really want the beating that's sure to come with my going to the party.

The problem with deciding what to do about his letter is that he came after Jetpup. Hindsight is _always_ 20/20. Jetpup is the one decision in my life that pushed me closer to what my town believes about me, that I'm a good-for-nothing tramp. I'd hooked up with an older man, who happened to be the county thief, for no other reason than he was available and I was curious. I gave him my virginity—again, for no other reason than he was available and I was curious. Do you see a pattern here? One man's availability and my curiosity have cost me dearly, and I'm still paying the damn price. I'm here at Portsmore Academy because it was my parent's last attempt to keep me from Jetpup.

They'd refused to believe that I was done with him after seeing him in court. I told them that I ended it, swore to this with my hands on a stack of bibles, but my word was no good with them because I'd told them that before. I didn't care about the static they told me about him. So when they found out I skipped school to go to court in June, no amount of begging or crying would stop my parents. Off to Portsmore Academy I went. They found the one thing that would keep us apart: distance. Without a car or a job, there was no way I could make a three-hour trip or afford bus tickets from Cary, Ohio to New York. They also knew that once I left, Jetpup would move on to someone closer to home.

Given my history with older men—...er, _one_ older man—it's a little hard for me to separate Jetpup from Fuzz the Body. Sure, there are glaring differences, like how he's so _not_ Jetpup, but I'm not sure if I want the consequences that will follow this decision. I mean, what if my parents find out and decide to ship me to freaking California this time? Or worse, Alaska? No, thank you!

I walk to the window and look out at the leaves that are just beginning to turn from the bright green of summer to the orange and bronze of fall. Maybe I should have gone with Rosie. I'm no closer to deciding what to do about Fuzz the Body than I was when she left yesterday.

Walking over to my bed, I decide I want to hear something, anything other than my own thoughts. I turn the radio on and hear the voice of Larry Lawrence. Rosie must have switched the stations again. I like DJ Bobbie and his fluffy, feel-good music while she likes Larry Lawrence's stuffy, preachy news broadcasts.

Larry Lawrence is talking about what the American government should do about the Cubana Flight 455 crash caused by some anti-Fidel Castro terrorists that happened three days ago. Usually I pass on such heavy stuff, but he says something that cements my decision about Fuzz the Body's letter. Theodore Roosevelt once said, "In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing."

Now, I know he was talking about a very serious issue—if I'm not mistaken, about seventy-three people lost their lives in the crash—but what Larry Lawrence said, or more specifically what Theodore Roosevelt said, pushes me toward my decision.

In his letter he sounds cocky, kind of like a ladies' man even though he tries to play it off. He's definitely older, but there is something about him. I have a million questions for him, like what's happening between him and his child's mother or how he really found me since I never told him where I was going?

I want to reach out and hold on to Officer Cullen. I want to be his _at last_, too. I lean back against my headboard and take out a pen and some sheets of paper from my bedside table.

Officer Cullen,

I'm sorry it's taken so long to write to you, but I would like to get to know you, too.

I'm here at Portsmore Academy for Girls because of my own stupidity. One day, while walking with my friends through the downtown square back home, I met Jetpup. He was cute, available, and paid me some attention. I've since learned my lesson about being so damn needy. One thing led to another and we became an item. Much later, I found out he was the county thief. Obviously, his being a thief didn't stop me.

I mean, we were only together for about five months. At first it was good; he took me to spots like Cafe Jenny, but then...meh. I lost interest. If I saw him, great; if I didn't, that was also fine. I mean, I broke up with him so many times a week, I'd lose count. My friends would tease me by asking whether I had a man that week or not.

But he'd always come sniffing around. And like I said, he was available and...well, there was nothing else better to do. Whatever. It wasn't like I was going to marry the man! My parents found out about us from nosy-body Jennifer, a neighbor of ours, who saw me and Jetpup at some club. I mean, the cat is the county thief...and I was trying to figure out how I'd end it for good, but was when my father decided to become a damn father!

One thing you should know about me is that I'm pretty headstrong. Once I make my mind up about something, only God Himself can change it. And so I decided I wasn't going to let my father tell me what the hell to do. I mean, what the hell! Now he wants to be concerned about me? I don't think so, buddy.

Anyway, you're a smart man. I know you can see where this is going. The more yelling and threatening my father did, the more I stuck to my guns about Jetpup. I'd get reprimanded and grounded, sure, but just knowing that he couldn't tell me what the hell to do, well... Anyway, that's my Jetpup story.

I tell him much more—more than I've ever told anyone. Even my best friends, Lissa and Nikki, don't know half the things about me. I tell him my secret desire of becoming a teacher. I tell him of my fear of becoming my mother, a stay-at-home mom with a no-good, cheating husband. I tell him all about Isabella Marie Swan. In the end, I've written about ten pages. Go figure there was so much to tell about little ol' me.

I seal envelope. Still in my hand and addressed to the postal office box Cullen gave to me, I start to second-guess myself._ Did I tell him too much? Should I have told him my fear of becoming like my mother? _The longer I hold the envelope in my hand, the more doubts I have about what I've written. And with that thought, I put the letter on my bedside table as if it burned my hand.

The letter makes me feel exposed to someone I really don't know. I feel like a chump. I _hate_ feeling like a chump. None of the things I share with Cullen in the letter puts me in a good light. He could get the letter and decide this is not what he wants. And,_ that_ bothers me. It bothers me a lot.

I let out the breathe I'd been holding and try to mellow out. "Stop it Izzy. He found _you_. He wrote to _you_. So you told him a few things about yourself. So what? It's not like any of them are military secrets," I berate myself loudly. So, I pick up the envelope—it feels heavy in my hand—with the intention of going to the campus' post office and sending _my_ secrets away.

**1970s terms****1****used in this chapter:**

can you dig it? - Can you understand something?

chump - a loser, a fool, a rube

don't be a bunny - Don't be stupid

heavy - something serious or important

I'm out to lunch - I'm confused

mellow out - chill out, calm down, relax,

Peace, Love, and Granola - farewell between friends

spaz - someone who's acting stupid

static - nonsense

stoked - feeling happy about something

toads – parents

**Author's Note:**

Sparkly Red Pen provided me with JaspersDestiny (my Technical Beta) and MissJanuary (my Creative Beta). Shout out to both of them for their hard work and turning this lil ol' story into something worthy of seeing the light of day.

Visit luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (take out the spaces) to listen to songs, see what they wore (in the Lookbook), meet Cullen & Izzy and so much more.

The story is here on FF (under luvtwilight4eva) and The Writer's Coffee Shop, under the penname twilightlover2. The story on both sites belong to me and is written by me. Same story title/content but different pen name. No need to report me to the either site's Administrators for plagiarism.

Psst…psst, not that you asked, but here's a FF fic that's owning me right now, _The Bad Vampire _by maxigrumpling_. _When I should be writing, I'm busy reading this story. It's sooo good.

**[1] www . inthe70s generated / terms . shtml **


	7. Chapter 6

Shout out to Chapter 5's first two reviewers - debslmac (with her constant smiley face reviews...aww!) and cullenmeadow.

Chapter 6 ~ Billy, Don't Be a Hero (by Paper Lace)

The marchin' band came down along Main Street

The soldier-blues fell in behind

I looked across and there I saw Billy

Waiting to go and join the line

And with her head upon his shoulder

His young and lovely fiancée

From where I stood, I saw she was cryin'

And through her tears I heard her say

"Billy, don't be a hero, don't be a fool with your life"

"Billy, don't be a hero, come back and make me your wife"

And as he started to go, she said, "Billy, keep your head lo-o-ow"

"Billy, don't be a hero, come back to me"

The soldier-blues were trapped on a hillside

The battle raging all around

The sergeant cried, "We've got to hang on, boys"

"We got to hold this piece a'ground"

"I need a volunteer to ride up"

"And bring us back some extra men"

And Billy's hand was up in a moment

Forgettin' all the words she said

She said

"Billy, don't be a hero, don't be a fool with your life"

"Billy, don't be a hero, come back and make me your wife"

And as he started to go, she said, "Billy, keep your head lo-o-ow"

"Billy, don't be a hero, come back to me"

I heard his fiancée got a letter

That told how Billy died that day

The letter said that he was a hero

She should be proud he died that way

I heard she threw that letter away

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight_, and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics to the song _Billy, Don't Be A Hero_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

* * *

**Wednesday, July 20, 1977**

_Nine months._

Sometimes I can't believe Ms. Swan ever responded to me in the first place. And now we've been corresponding for a little over nine months.

When I didn't hear immediately from her, my feelings were a little—okay, a _lot_—crushed. And that's a lot to admit for me. I mean, I'm freaking Cullen, after all.

I was crushed, and then that feeling was quickly replaced by intense anger. I was angry at her for acting like a kid in a very adult situation and at me for being a complete idiot...and again at her for drawing me toward something unattainable, just like she did last June. I know, I know. I was being a cocky jackass. But I was mad. Mad that the one thing I've gone after in a really long time seemingly did not want me back.

Stupid? Yeah, I know. But that's how I felt. Then—then!—a letter arrived in early October, and I was elated. She had written, finally! _Finally._ I felt like a kid given free range in his favorite candy store when I saw that letter in my mailbox at the police station.

And boy, can she ever write!? Her penmanship leaves a little to be desired, though, especially if she wants to become a teacher, but, man, the things she shared with me! I smile a little as I reminisce about her first letter. I stand up in front of my locker and look into the small mirror attached to it. "You look good, Cullen," I think, using my forefinger and pinky to arch the stray hairs of both my eyebrows. I put Ms. Swan's most recent letter back into my locker, nearest the pictures of Em that I have taped up. I have read the letter about three times since getting it earlier this morning.

Her letter is full of concerns: concerns about not coming home for the summer like she'd thought; concerns about getting a summer job in Ohio; concerns about the foot patrols Bent and I do at night, especially the one we are doing tonight. Like I said, she has concerns. Tomorrow I'll write her back and tell her not to worry about not coming home for the summer, and I'll encourage her about getting a job and tell her all about the mundane nights Bent and I have, just to assuage her concerns.

"Man, are you ready yet?" Bent asks.

"Hold your horses. I'm coming."

Bent sees me putting the letter back. "If you read that letter one more damn time, Cullen...—"

"Hey, watch it! I can't help it if I'm a happy man and you're stuck in perpetual despair."

"Cullen!" he almost growls.

"Bent, the color green does not suit you."

"Come on, you knucklehead."

We both triple check that we're properly secured and everything's in working order on our gun belts. At the same time, our hands ghost over the two most important items: our standard issued Glock G21s and radios. The former we need to defend ourselves from any threats and the latter to radio in for backup, just in case. After all, Mount Salem, the neighborhood we're patrolling tonight, is not for the faint of heart. As always, I whisper a little prayer before closing the door of my locker.

Heading toward the front door, we see Captain Luger. He's a little gruff in speech, but his actions reveal something else about how he feels about his officers. He can be a little too serious at times, if you ask me, but then no one did.

"Cullen, Bent!"

We both turn toward the captain rather unwillingly. He has a penchant for lecturing, and since he's about five feet six inches, we're always looking down at him. Sometimes you can get fooled by a person's height and get arrogant, but what Captain Luger lacks in physical height he makes up for in speed and flexibility. One of the main reasons he's the youngest captain in Upper Salem is because he came up with about eighty percent of the takedown techniques the different police departments around the county use.

"I want a smooth night tonight. You got that? No funny business. Keep your eyes open, your weapons loaded, and your hands on the radio."

"Yes, Captain," Bent says.

There's no need for me to respond because he already knows my style. I love my job, but I love being alive even more.

"The area you are going to tonight is a known hangout for the Two Short Crew," Captain Luger tells us as if we haven't been debriefed already. This patrol is not our normal route. We're covering for Officers Sagay and Manlee, who were currently helping with a stakeout in Pennsylvania.

"Thanks, Cap," I say as I head back out so Bent will get the hint to get a move on. Right above the exit doors, off to the right, is a butt-ugly huge round clock that was gifted to the station by our mayor's wife. Why I remember such mundane crap is beyond me, but I saw that it was about 10 pm, meaning I have another five hours before my shift ends.

"Alright Cullen. Game face. Here we go," I give myself a mental pep talk.

"You driving?" Bent asks as he follows me down the steps.

"Nah, you got it." Parked in front of the station is our baby, CW's Own. She has the loudest siren of all the cars in our department, and her radio, which is an anomaly, works in comparison to most of the other cars that either have crappy radios or ones that don't work at all. I mean who wants to work an eight to ten hour shift without some kind of music? Music is the reason I don't have a higher body count than I already do. Cops tend to get trigger-happy in stressful situations. Music makes me stress less, and therefore we make more by-the-book arrests. The less Internal Affairs comes to #13 Mobayton Police Station, the happier we all are.

I hand Bent the keys and head toward the passenger side. The only thing funky about CW's Own—we used the initials of our first names to name our cruiser because we're so clever—is that her front passenger side door doesn't automatically open. Everything on our baby is top of the line except for that one flaw. And I think that's why Bent and I love this car so much. She's just like us; some things we do all the way, but she—like us—still had flaws.

As soon as Bent puts the key in the ignition, our favorite radio station comes on: 102.1 FM. It plays all the latest songs, plus songs from the fifties and sixties. I love music—_all_ kinds of music. Turning left onto Main Street, we hear the distinct whistling and drums of a very particular song beginning to play: Paper Lace's anti-war song that came out in '74, _Billy, Don't Be No Hero_.

Bent and I drive in silence, listening to the lyrics and lost in our own thoughts. I'm not sure what he's thinking about, but I'm thinking about why in the hell America was involved in a war that lasted almost twenty years and cost us so many lives.

"That song was played to commemorate the one-year anniversary of the U.S. military withdrawing its troops from Thailand1 and sending our boys home. For all the heroes we lost and those who survived in 'Nam, we salute you," says the radio deejay.

"Can't believe it's been a year," Bent says.

"Yeah. I had friends that finally came home last year."

The last couple of verses from this song have always bothered me. On one hand, we all want to be heroic; on the other, we want to be able to walk across the stage to get whatever medal given to us for our heroic act.

I heard his fiancée got a letter

That told how Billy died that day

The letter said that he was a hero

She should be proud he died that way

I heard she threw that letter away

The verses remind me of Ms. Swan's main concern in that letter in my locker—that of my safety. For some reason, she ends her letter to me asking me to be safe and not to be a hero. I mean, _hello_, she's talking to Cullen after all. I smirk to myself because she must not realize how badass I am. A _careful_ badass.

"You're thinking about her again, aren't you?"

I don't respond. There's no reason to. He and I both know that only two people currently occupy my thoughts: Ms. Swan and Em. The way I look when I think about Em is a different kind of look than when I think about Ms. Swan, or so Bent tells me. How he knows the difference between the two looks baffles the hell out of me, but there you go.

I look at the dashboard and it reads 10:45 pm. We turn the corner at Lafayette and Harding Streets when the dispatcher calls out, "There's a 10-10 in progress at the intersection of 9th and 11th Avenues in Mount Salem. Proceed with caution."

"This is 13E68 responding to the 10-10 in progress in Mount Salem," Bent tells the dispatcher, letting her know we'll take the call.

Bent and I look at each other and turn the siren on. At this point, our goal is singular: getting safely home tonight. A 10-10 call in the Mount Salem area means one thing: shots fired.

Bent and I get to the location and scan the area while still sitting in the car. It's eerily quiet out, but then I hear the faint sound of gunshots firing. If I'm not mistaken, those bullets sound like they're coming from an Ingram MAC-10, which again in Mount Salem only means one thing. So I tell Bent what my buddy from 'Nam's division's motto was: _Stay alert, stay alive, man_.2

"Yeah, you, too," Bent responds.

I unlock my door with my Glock in hand. "Bent, I'll head east. You head west. We'll meet back here in ten."

"Damnit, Cullen, we shouldn't..."

There's an old adage, maybe you've heard it, that hindsight is 20/20. Well, in a couple of minutes I would learn how the truth of the saying. But because I can't see into the future, I run headlong toward the gunshots in a neighborhood I have no goddamn clue about. I hear more shots that lead me to a darkened alley. Dark alleys in Mount Salem mean you hold your spot, radio your location, and wait for your damn partner. But I see a man lying on the ground near a couple of dumpsters. My gun aimed before me, I clear my line of vision but don't see anything. I approach the man, who's barely breathing. I crouch low and check for his pulse at the base of his neck. It's faint, but it's there.

Whispering, "Hold on, man," I look closely at him and realize that he can't be no more than seventeen years old, and my mind immediately goes to Ms. Swan. Too late, I hear the crunch of broken glass under someone's shoe. Too late I aim my gun in the direction of said crunch before I feel a sting and then unbelievable warmth from my lower abdomen. I've been shot on my left side where another goddamn bullet proof vest has failed, a-freaking-gain!

"Motherfu—" is my last conscious thought. Ringing somewhere deep in my consciousness is Paper Lace's song and Ms. Swan's plea for me not to be a hero.

_I heard his fiancée got a letter.  
That told how Billy died that day.  
The letter said that he was a hero.  
She should be proud he died that way.  
I heard she threw that letter away._

I'm not sure who'll write to Ms. Swan about my stupid heroic act—or if such a letter is delivered to her what the hell she'll do.

1 en . Wikipedia wiki / United _ States _ Air _ Force _ in _ Thailand

2 "Stay alert, stay alive" is an alleged motto of the 1st Infantry Division in Vietnam (they toured from 1965-1970). www . worldofquotes author / Motto + of + the + U . S . + First + Infantry + Division + in + Vietnam / 1 / index . html and en . Wikipedia wiki / 1 st _ Infantry _ Division _ ( United _ States )

**Author's Note:**

Sparkly Red Pen provided me with JaspersDestiny (my Technical Beta) and MissJanuary (my Creative Beta). They both have their work cut out for them.

As usual, this story is on FanFiction under my penname, luvtwilight4eva and The Writer's Coffee Shop, under the penname twilightlover2. The story on both sites belong to me and is written by me. Same story title/content but different pen name. No need to report me to the either site's Administrators for plagiarism.

Visit luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com for songs, looks and much more about The Songs of Our Lives.


	8. Chapter 7

Shout out to the first two reviewers of Chapter 6, twilightmom96 and lanigirl960003. I *heart* reviews.

Chapter 7 ~ Everybody Plays the Fool (by Main Ingredient)

_Spoken:_

OK, so your heart broke.

You sit around mopin', cryin' an' cryin'.

You say you even thinkin' about dyin'?

Well, before you do anything rash, dig this.

_Sung:_

Everybody plays the fool sometime.

There's no exception to the rule.

Listen, baby, it may be factual, may be cruel,

I ain't lyin', everybody plays the fool.

Falling in love is such an easy thing to do,

And there's no guarantee

That the one you love is gonna love you.

Oh, lovin' eyes they cannot see,

A certain person could never be.

Love runs deeper than any ocean,

And clouds your mind with emotion.

Everybody plays the fool sometime.

There's no exception to the rule.

Listen, baby, it may be factual, may be cruel,

I wanna tell you this: everybody plays the fool.

How can you help it when the music starts to play,

And your ability to reason is swept away,

Oh, heaven on earth is all you see,

You're out of touch with reality,

And now you cry but when you're through,

The next time around someone cries for you.

Everybody plays the fool, sometime,

They use your heart just like a tool.

Listen, baby, they never tell you so in school,

I wanna say it again, everybody plays the fool.

Listen to me, baby,

Everybody plays the fool sometime.

(No exception) No exception to the rule.

It may be factual, may be cruel sometime.

And everybody plays the fool.

Listen, listen, baby,

_Fade._

Everybody plays the fool sometime.

Use your heart just like a tool...

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight_, and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Everybody Plays the Fool_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Friday, September 16, 1977 **

"This song is dedicated to all my listeners who've played the fool for love," DJ Bobbie says from the radio station I'm listening to. When the song leader says, "Okay, so your heart broke," I feel like I'm going to throw up, cry, and scream again. My emotions have been all over the goddamn place since I got that phone call in July. I've been an utter mess. I've never felt this kind of hollowness that's since replaced my heartbeat. I'm an empty shell of my former self and I don't have a clue how to get back to that Izzy—the Izzy I was before the call.

The only reason I know I'm still in the land of the living is purely because of the pulse I feel at the base of my neck. I just can't seem to shake this feeling. We'd only been writing for about nine months, but in that time he'd somehow snuck his way into my heart. It seems, sadly, that he has no plans of ever letting go of my heart. Or rather, I don't know how to get my heart back from him.

The song ends, and I'm left to ponder the lyrics: _Everybody plays the fool sometime.__Use your heart just like a tool_. Really, does _everybody_ play a fool? I wasn't a fool for Jetpup. I knew what was up with him. Even though he was my first lover, I never allowed myself to imagine anything real or lasting with him. I mean, come on, who'd want to be known around Upper Salem as Jetpup's woman? Really? The town thief? I don't think so!

But for some strange reason, I'd thought about a future—something real and tangible—with Cullen, and it'd bit me on the ass! I didn't _really_ know the man outside of what he'd written, and now I'm realizing I never really did. He'd left out some major events of his life in our nine months of corresponding.

My birthday cards litter my bedside table from all my well-wishers. Seeing them brings a ghost of a smile to my lips. My seventeenth birthday had come and gone without much fanfare. I got cards from Mom, Harim, and Rosie. Mom even sent me a care package of goodies from home. It had all my favorites: Andy Capp's Cheddar Fries, Appleheads, Blow Pops, Buckeyes, and my favorite of them all: Gobstoppers! I had a field day when I got the package. It had come at a very difficult time for me; I was PMSing hard and missing him. Stupid me.

I've been having a lot of difficult days since July, actually.

"Ugh!" I shriek loudly in my empty dorm room.

I look over to what had been Rosie's bed and begin to feel depression settling in again. At the end of August, her parents couldn't afford to send her back to Portsmore Academy. Had I known when we last hugged each other in June that it be our last embrace, I would have held on to her a little longer, and much closer. She left behind her prized possession: her stereo player. And it doesn't seem like Portsmore Academy will be able to fill her bed with another person, which is fine by me.

I know if Rosie had been here, September thirteenth would have gone much differently. As it was, that dreadful Tuesday coincided with Ohio's worst torrential rainstorm in decades. The gloomy skies and stormy weather matched what was already brewing in both my head and heart.

"Come on, Swan. Get your butt to work."

For the last month and a half, I've been a Burger Girl at Big Dan's Burger World. Big Dan's is about ten minutes walking distance from campus. While walking there in the summer months provided me with my one cardio workout for the day, I was dreading the walk during the winter months. Ohio winters are no joke! Trust me; I've gone through an entire season of it already. It's simply amazing that I've been in hick-town Cary for a year now. How the time flies when you're having fun—NOT!

I adjust the red and white pinstripe uniform and make sure the matching hat is sitting atop my head at a forty-five degree angle, just like Big Dan requested. I hate uniforms! The conformity of looking like another person just rubs against my natural desire to be uniquely me.

I make it to Big Dan's with about three minutes to spare before my shift begins. Today I'm scheduled to work from 4pm to 8pm. My hours have changed since school started back up, which means I won't be making as much as I did in the summer. My summer money came in handy because while my parents pay for Portsmore Academy's ridiculous tuition, everything else is on me. It's not like we're made of money. Books, toiletries, snacks, hanging with my Portsmore Academy friends…it all costs money. Un-freaking-fortunately.

I punch my time card and walk toward my "office." Hell's Kitchen is what I lovingly call it. I start setting out the frozen beef patties on the grill and immediately beads of perspiration begin to form. _Great_. My hair always ends up looking like a drowned cat, matted to my head in some places while sticking up in others. For the life of me, I'm not sure how my hair has that much room under my hair net and cap to do all of that.

I've been flipping beef patties and helping the others make burgers for a while when Pablo shouts for me.

"Yeah?" I say, flipping another patty.

"Someone's out front for you."

"For me?" I ask doubtfully

"Yes, ma'am."

Pablo is a cool cat. He looks out for me here at Big Dan's. He taught me how to flip the burger so that I'm not splattered to death by grease. Most nights, he drives me back to campus just so I don't have to walk the lonely eight or so blocks. If he wasn't a little on the shorter side of five feet four inches and married to the sweetest lady in all of Cary, Ohio, I would have made a play for him. Just kidding. But he's a real sweetheart.

Wondering if it's one of my always-hungry but no-money-having friends trying to use my employee discount to get a burger, I head to the front…and stop dead in my tracks. Off to the left of Sandy, a cashier, is_ him_. What the hell?! I have no words, and my feet seem to not be working.

"Damn, he looks good," I mutter. He may have heard me because I see his eyes shift from uncertainty to the trademark cockiness from that night at Cafe Jenny.

And that right there—the fact that he can freaking smirk at me—is what unglues my feet. I don't acknowledge him. Instead I make a sharp turn back toward the kitchen. God damn it to hell! This is utter bullshit!

My nerves are a jumbled mess. I take a calming breath, as calming as can be after seeing _him_ here. What is he doing here in Cary? What the hell?! Now I know I must be out to lunch. I think I'm going slightly insane because there's no way he's here. He wouldn't come, not after...well, he just wouldn't. To calm myself the heck down, I say out loud, "Izzy, you've just been thinking about him too much. He was not standing beside Sandy." My breathing slows down to its normal rhythm, and I pick up the spatula. Obviously my imagination is running wild today. Doing something mindless, like my job of flipping burgers, should calm me down!

Pablo does not come back to the kitchen with anymore requests for my presence up front, so now I know hewas really a figment of my very poor imagination. Why, after all these months of effectively stamping him out of my memory, would I be imagining seeing him now?

The hours pass and then all of a sudden it's time to head out.

Pablo comes over while I'm about to punch out. "Izzy, you ready?"

"Yeah," I say while futilely trying to fix my hair back into the ponytail I'd had it in before wearing that stupid hat and hair net. "Good night, all! Remember: make Happy Burgers," I tease to the other losers still stuck at Big Dan's until closing.

Going out the door, I lift my head to the sky to take a big gulp of fresh air, which is my normal routine. I always feel like I can't breathe in that kitchen. Looking to my right at Pablo, I hook my arm in his. But before we can take a step toward his beat-up Cadillac®, I see him. Our eyes meet across the short expanse of sidewalk.

And now my shitty day has just been magnified to the freaking tenth degree.

"Ms. Swan, a word please?"

"Come on, Pablo. Let's go," I tell Pablo.

_He_ moves slightly from his leaning position on some black Pontiac GTO and heads toward us. I stiffen beside Pablo, who tightens his arm more securely about me.

"Miss Swan, please. Just a word."

"Hey, friend, I don't know you, but obviously Izzy doesn't want to talk to you," Pablo says. And with that, Pablo becomes seven feet tall in my eyes.

He takes a tentative step towards us and now I can see his eyes. There's fear in them. Fear and desperation.

"Isabella. Please?" Cullen whispers.

They always say curiosity kills the cat. Right now, I'm about to be one dead damn cat. I move my arm ever so slowly away from Pablo's, but Pablo tightens his arm around mine while whispering in my ear, "Are you sure, Izzy?"

Staring straight into Cullen's eyes, I nod my head in the affirmative. Pablo sighs, releases my hand, and heads towards his car.

"You call me as soon as you get home," Pablo says. It seems he's had a change of mind because he veers a little to his left and is now in front of Cullen. "Let me see some identification, son," he requests of Cullen. Pablo is a foot shorter than Cullen and has about thirty years on him, but surprisingly Cullen complies.

"Okay. If something happens to Izzy, I'm holding you, Edward Anthony Masen Cullen, of 1010 Schwin Street in Vantem, New York, personally responsible. I don't forget a face or a name, pretty boy," Pablo says, walking to his car.

Neither one of us says anything for what seems like a lifetime. I stare intently at him, willing him to speak.

He takes a breath, then, "It's been a long time."

"Yeah? Not long enough." I move off to the side of the door leading to Big Dan's so customers can walk in and out of the restaurant undisturbed.

"Were you heading back to campus?"

Instead of answering him, I ask a question of my own. A very _important_ question. "What are you doing here?"

"You know...visiting friends."

I'm so disgusted by his obvious lie and smart-alecky mouth that I turn and start walking. I hear his footsteps on the pavement.

"Ms. Swan, wait. Wait!"

"Close the shades, Cullen!"

"Isabella, please wait. I came all this way to talk to you."

"Go to hell!" I spit with as much hate I can muster. Because the truth is I'm mad. I'm mad as hell. Unfortunately, I don't hate him. I don't know if I ever could, no matter what he does.

"I...I should have told you." His stammering lets me know that his little trip to Ohio _may_ not have been as planned out as he'd like, and that's why my feet stop moving, though I don't turn to face him. I can't look into his eyes.

"Please turn around."

By now tears are streaming down my face. I'm crying because I've missed him so damn much, much to my utter dismay. I'm crying because I'm also so mad at him that I can't even speak. I'm crying because he's humiliated me, lied to me, and played me like a fiddle.

"No."

"Ms. Swan...Isabella...Izzy, _please_."

I almost turn around when he says my nickname like he's broken up. But he can't be broken up about me, not while living with the mother of his child, that is.

"Cullen, go back to New York. There's nothing here for you."

I don't mention _her_ name because it hurts too much, even after all these months. He doesn't say anything because there's nothing to say. He has a family but he's behaved like a free agent—as if beginning a relationship with me wasn't a problem.

Thank God he lets me go. Had he touched me, my resolve to be the bigger person would have broken. Had he touched me, I would have agreed to be the "other woman"—not that he had ever asked me. That's just the hold he has on me now. I'm disgusted just thinking about it, but it's the truth.

I walk in the direction of Portsmore Academy. Somehow, even though I never turn around, I know he's driving slowly behind me in his car. Maybe he's making sure I get to campus safely. I don't know, and right now I really don't care.

His being in Cary is not enough. It's not enough for me to erase from my memory that call. And he's just too late.

I'm _nobody_'s other woman.

I don't turn around. I see the shortcut to one of Portsmore Academy's side gates and let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding in. I walk through the gate, and that's when I hear his engine rev up before he drives away.

_I didn't even ask how he's felt since being shot._

**1970s terms**1** used in this chapter:**

Close the shades! - I don't want to listen to you/shut up

I'm out to lunch - I'm confused

**Author's Note:**

My betas are JaspersDestiny and MissJanuary from Sparkly Red Pen.

The story is on FanFiction under my penname, luvtwilight4eva and The Writer's Coffee Shop, under the penname twilightlover2. The story on both sites belongs to me and is written by me. Same story title/content but different pen name. No need to report me to the either site's Administrators for plagiarism.

Visit luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com for songs, looks and much more about _The Songs of Our Lives_.

A story owning me is _Ruthless P__eople_ by JAnnMcCole. Check it out if you like Mobward.

1


	9. Chapter 8

Shout out to the first two reviewers of Chapter 7, Momma Laura and debslmac. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and those following this story.

Chapter 8 ~ The Great Pretender (by The Platters)

Oh yes, I'm the great pretender

Pretending I'm doing well

My need is such

I pretend too much

I'm lonely but no one can tell

Oh yes, I'm the great pretender

Adrift in a world of my own

I play the game but to my real shame

You've left me to dream all alone

Too real is this feeling of make-believe

Too real when I feel what my heart can't conceal

Oh yes, I'm the great pretender

Just laughing and gay like a clown

I seem to be what I'm not you see

I'm wearing my heart like a crown

Too real when I feel what my heart can't conceal

Oh yes, I'm the great pretender

Just laughing and gay like a clown

I seem to be what I'm not you see

I'm wearing my heart like a crown

Pretending that you're...

Pretending that you're still around

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight_,and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _The Great Pretender _are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Saturday, September 17, 1977**

I look at the clock on the dashboard and it reads 1:30 am. I'd stuck around Cary, Ohio, for another hour, trying to figure out how I could salvage this thing.

The last time I saw her was 8:30 last night. It seems like a lifetime ago. I've never been so damn confused in all my life. She's slipping away from me and there's not one goddamn thing I can do about it.

My three-hour-long drive from Ohio back to New York left me with crampy legs, arms, back, and just about damn near everywhere else. I've noticed since the gunshot that my body takes more time than I care to admit to recover from certain things even though I'm only twenty-seven. To relieve some of the cramps, I move my head side to side then twist my upper body left to right. Instantly I'm reminded that I'm still not a hundred percent; there's still a nagging something on my left side.

I groan. My discomfort reminds me about that damn night: July twentieth. How I got from Mount Salem to the hospital is still such a blur. I only remember what I've been told.

*****FLASHBACK — Wednesday, July 20, 1977*****

"Stay with me, man," I hear Bent say. At least I think it's Bent. I want to tell him that I'm starting to feel a little cold, but I can't form the words.

"I need a bus at Camp Street. Officer shot. Repeat, an Officer has been shot. Hurry, he's losing a lot of blood!"

I feel the pressure of hands on my abdomen, which is so painful that it forces my eyes to pop open. I look up and see Bent on his knees. He looks scared. In the background I hear sirens and Bent's huffing breaths. I want to tell him about the kid by the dumpsters, but I can't form the words.

"Why the hell didn't you wait for me?" he asks me.

I try to talk, but I feel a gurgling in my throat.

"Don't say anything. They're coming. You hold on, Cullen, you hear me!" All I can do is blink my eyes. At least I think I blink them. I've got to tell Bent something—a very important something.

I muster up some strength and say, "You have to tell her."

Bent leans closer to my lips, as if he can't hear me.

"What? Cullen, hey, stay with me. What did you just say?"

Maybe he's losing his hearing. I can't understand why he's shouting at me but can't seem to hear the simple words I've just said. If this cold feeling wasn't slowly creeping toward my heart, I'd be laughing at Bent for being so overdramatic.

I grab a hold of his collar and repeat, "You have to tell her."

He hears me because he nods. "Okay, Cullen. I'll tell her. I'll tell Ruthie."

I hear sirens. I hear rushing footsteps. Then, suddenly, I'm being lifted.

"On my count. 1, 2, 3...now lift."

Now why would he tell Ruthie? I want him to tell—

*****END FLASHBACK*****

**Saturday, September 17, 1977**

I shake my head at that memory and turn off the ignition. I'm parked in front of my house, but I can't go in, not yet. Resting my head back, I close my eyes and try to remember her. Even looking like a drowned cat, she was beautiful. I can see the reserved beauty she'll grow into as she ages. She was like a breath of fresh air that my lungs needed but didn't know wanted.

As soon as I got the information where she worked, I'd made up my mind to visit her. I was never so grateful to know all the people I do. The same person, Myron, who gave me the information that she was at Portsmore Academy had done me a solid and found out where she worked, after much pleading on my part. See, Myron and I went to the same police academy together. We were both far from home—he from Philadelphia and me from Montega, New York—and so we stuck together. Who knew that Myron's little sister would be her roommate? If that wasn't a sign from Heaven, I didn't know what was. Even though Myron and I ended up in different cities, we still keep up with one another. We met up one Saturday in September—before I first wrote to Ms. Swan—and he was describing his sister's roommate. He described the roommate so well that I just knew (remember my gut instinct about her age?) it was her. I listened more intently to his story, but when he used her nickname, Bird, I knew I'd found my girl! I told him my situation, he spoke to Rosie, and the rest was history.

Even though I probably looked like a stalker showing up at Big Dan's, I just had to see her. I really wanted to see her on her birthday, but that freaky rain storm in Ohio kept me away. The first chance I was able to drive to Cary, I did. On my way there, I was hopeful she'd let me take her out to celebrate her birthday. We'd talk, I'd explain...I don't know what I'd explain, but I'd explain…, and she'd, I don't know what, but something other than what the hell happened last night would have taken place. Goddamn Ruthie!

I didn't really have a plan, and usually I do, but that morning I got in my car determined just to see her face. I'm not sure what I expected or how I thought she'd receive me, but I really thought she would at least hear me out. I was only able to see her brown eyes for a split second—not nearly long enough considering I hadn't seen her since back in September '76. Her eyes are just one part of her beauty. They are truly the windows to her soul. They tell you when she's happy, angry, hurt, or any other emotion she might be feeling.

I should have braced myself for the moment when I would see her eyes. When I finally saw them, I felt like kicking my own ass for putting those different emotions in them. There was just so much oozing from them—anger, more anger, apprehension, and a little bit of lust. Did I mention anger? She was one pissed off young lady, and she was pissed at _me_.

I let out a sigh and turn the radio on because thinking about her reaction to seeing me is depressing. But I should have left the radio off.

"This song is dedicated Sanay of Mount Salem. Your boy, Montie, is sorry he's been a great pretender with you and about his feelings for you. He said, "Won't you give me another chance?'" the radio host says in a thick Southern accent as he begins to play The Platters' _The Great Pretender_.

Well, if this doesn't just beat it all to hell?!

I resign myself to listening about my goddamn life by The Platters, and my mind drifts back to that day in the hospital.

*****FLASHBACK — Wednesday, July 27, 1977*****

I look up and see blinding white lights. Where am I? What the...I feel tubes running every which way in and out of me.

"Oh, you're finally awake!"

What does she mean by _finally_? I open my lips to voice my question, but it's like someone's stuffed a hundred or so cotton balls down my throat. I lift my right hand and see more tubes. I rub at my throat.

"Let me get your nurse."

I hear the clicking of her heels on the hospital floor as she leaves. She returns just as I'm fussing with the tube in my mouth. This thing is damn uncomfortable!

"No, stop that. Your nurse is coming, Eddie." She lightly slaps my hand away from the tube.

Ruthie's face comes into view as she tries to get me to relax.

"Do you need anything?"

Yeah, some water. When she doesn't move, it becomes clear that she hasn't heard me. So, I shake my head in the negative.

"Do you know where you are, Eddie?"

Again I shake my head.

"You're at the hospital. You've been here for about a week now."

I frown because that's just weird. The last thing I remember is feeling that kid's pulse.

"You lost so much blood that the doctors had to medically induce you into a coma. They said something about your lungs, which is why you have that tube in your mouth."

Oh. Okay. I'm in the hospital. I've lost blood—a lot of it. I've been in a coma for a week. This tube was helping me breathe. Okay.

She pulls a chair close to my bedside, sits, and grasps my hand.

"You know, Eddie, when Bent called me that night, I was so scared. I left Em with a neighbor and high-tailed it to the hospital."

Yeah..._you_ were scared? I bet you weren't as scared as I was. But again, I don't think she can hear my monologue because she doesn't respond to my sarcastic statement.

She tries to rub my hand, but sometimes the different tubes get in her way.

"Imagine my surprise when I get here and you're screaming, 'You have to tell her, you have to tell her!' at the top of your lungs."

I turn my head to face her because I have no idea what she's talking about.

"We all thought you were delirious from your blood loss. But it made sense when I looked in your locker at the station!"

Now I'm definitely interested in what the hell she's talking about. She knows not to go into my stuff—not my mail, not my pants pockets, not my brief case, nothing! And, why the hell was she going through my stuff at the station anyway!?

It's like she hears my last question because she rushes out, "Captain Luger told me to come get your personal stuff because you were so close to dying."

Oh...she wasn't just being nosy? But, still, _what the hell_?

"I found them, Eddie. I found the letters from your precious Ms. Swan."

I say nothing because...well, I can't say _anything_ with a tube down my throat.

Her eyes take on a sad glint, and if I'm not mistaken, I see a sheen of moisture glazing her eyes.

"For months I felt you pulling away from me. But to think...you're trying to fuck a sixteen year old! That's disgusting, even for you."

Ouch...even after all this time with Ruthie, her mouth is still a cesspool. I want to tell her to, first, mind her goddamn business because what I do is none of her concern, and second, that she'll be seventeen in a few months. But I don't because I can't.

"It wasn't until I read her letters that I figured out what you were shouting about the night you got shot. You wanted someone to tell _her_...not me. I was not the _her_ you were shouting about, was I?" She sneers the last part out.

Well, give the woman a gold star for putting two and two together.

"I know you've stepped out before. I'm no idiot. But you always come back. She seems to think you don't have a family. I mean, she knows about Em, but me...I realize she has no damn clue about _me_."

I still don't say anything because...well, you know why. This damn tube is beginning to get on my nerves!

"Am I not special, Eddie? I've been in your life for eight years and I don't even get mentioned by _name _that I'm your child's mother?"

She must have noticed the change in my eyes or in my body language or something because she drops my hand and backs the hell away from the bed. That's one thing about Ruthie: She's always had a strong sense of self-preservation.

She looks at her nails and kind of chuckles. "Well, I told her. After all, that's what you wanted, right?"

And now she's got even more of my attention. I hear all kinds of beeping noises going crazy to my left and my right, but I ignore them. She ignores them, too, as she continues her diatribe.

"I found the number to Portsmore Academy for Girls and called her. I spoke to some woman—Susan, I think—and told her I had an important message for Isabella Swan. It was late in the night, but she got her. I told Isabella that you'd been shot, and she started crying. She wanted to find a way back to New York, but I told her don't worry about it. She asked if I was your sister, and I told her what you've obviously neglected to tell her—that we've been in an eight year relationship and living together with our five-year old son."

She approaches me again and says rather sadly, "She had a right to know, Edward. And I _should_ matter. I should matter when you're having a relationship with another person when you're already in a relationship with _me_. I should _matter_, Eddie."

The beeping noises are going haywire now. I hear feet running toward my bed. All I can see are hands and stethoscopes swinging as they recline my bed back.

Well, motherfu—

*****END FLASHBACK*****

**1970s terms****1**** used in this chapter:**

solid - favor

**Author's Note:**

I'm working with two wonderful and talented ladies from Sparkly Red Pen – JaspersDestiny who's tired of telling me to cut the ums and ahs the heck out, and MissJanuary who's pateiently teaching me about flow in a story. They both (continue) have their work cut out for them.

Also, this story is on FanFiction under my penname, luvtwilight4eva and The Writer's Coffee Shop, under the penname twilightlover2. The story on both sites belong to me and is written by me. Same story title/content but different pen name. No need to report me to the either site's Administrators for plagiarism.

Visit luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (take out the spaces) for songs, looks and much more about The Songs of Our Lives.

[1] www . inthe70s generated / terms . shtml


	10. Chapter 9

Shout-out to the first three reviewers of Chapter 8: cullenmeadow, debslmac, and Momma Laura.

I'm sending very loud smooches to cejsmom, Hoodfabulous, MissJanuary, nebfan51, and RoseArcadia for pimping out my story on to their friends and Facebook peeps. If I missed anyone, blame my forgetful mind and not the intent of my heart. To everyone that's reviewed and favored _The Songs of Our Lives_, welcome and my heartfelt appreciation.

Chapter 9 ~ Cry to Me (by Solomon Burke)

When your baby leaves you all alone

And nobody calls you on the phone

Ah, don't you feel like crying?

Don't you feel like crying?

Well here I am my honey

Oh, come on you cry to me.

When you're all alone in your lonely room

And there's nothing but the smell of her perfume

Ah don't you feel like crying

Don't you feel like crying?

Ah don't you feel like crying?

Come on, come on cry to me.

Well nothing could be sadder

Than a glass of wine, all alone

Loneliness, loneliness, it's such a waste of time

Oh-oh yeah

You don't ever have to walk alone, oh you see

Oh come on, take my hand and baby won't you walk with me?

Oh ya

When you're waiting for a voice to come

In the night and there is no one

Ah don't you feel like crying? (cry to me)

Don't you feel like crying? (cry to me)

Ah don't you feel like a-ca-ca-cra-co-cra-co-cra-cra, (cry to me)

Cra-co-cra-co-cra-cra crying? (cry to me)

Ah don't you feel like a-cra-co-cra-co-cra-cra,

Cra-co-cra-co-cra-cra crying?

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight_,and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Cry To Me_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**9am on Tuesday, June 20, 1978**

Through the thin walls, I hear my neighbor's movements. All of us are packing to return home. Some for the summer, and some, like me, for good. I look around my empty dorm room and a sad sigh escapes my lips.

Suddenly the piano and guitar instruments of Solomon Burke's _Cry to Me_ float from her room to where I am. The longer I listen to the words, the more I do feel like crying.

This time last year, I was wishing my friend a happy summer and writing _him_ for his birthday. _Birthday?_ Then my brain registers what today is—it's _his_ birthday. Remembering Cullen, the images flood my mind with our last conversation. The last time I saw him was September 16, 1977. I feel hot and cold at the same time. My body convulses as I drop to my knees, doubling over in despair.

As the line, when you're all alone in your lonely room, is sung, I can't stop the river of tears that stream down my face.

Even as my parents approach me in confusion and horror, I can't stop crying. On our drive back to New York, despite my father yelling for me to stop, I can't stop crying. As my mother tries to soothe me in my bedroom and asks me for the millionth time what's the matter, I can't stop crying.

It's becoming too difficult to breathe_ and_ cry_ and _control the non-stop hiccupping that started about an hour ago, so now my cries are silent sobs. My mother leaves to get me a glass of water from the kitchen, and I notice that my clock reads 12:05 am.

_I should have turned to look at him. Damn!_

Author's Note:

Okay, so this is a short chapter. Are you mad? I hope not because I've got treats on my blog for each of you. The blog is currently featuring an interview with Jasper "Jetpup" Hale and on the right side under the posting of chapter nine, you will find **Ruthie's call to Izzy**. Read them both and let me know-whether on the blog or through FF or TWCS-your thoughts or concerns.

My betas from Sparkly Red Pen are JaspersDestiny and MissJanuary (She's writing an Angella called _In Venam_, check it out).

Visit luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for songs, looks, and much more about _The Songs of Our Lives_.


	11. Chapter 10

Shout-out to the first three reviewers of Chapter 9: SunflowerFran3759, shaz308, and cejsmom. To everyone that's reviewed and favored _The Songs of Our Lives_, welcome and my heartfelt appreciation.

Chapter 10 ~ Maggie May (by Rod Stewart)

Wake up Maggie I think I got something to say to you

It's late September and I really should be back at school

I know I keep you amused but I feel I'm being used

Oh Maggie I couldn't have tried any more

You lured me away from home just to save you from being alone

You stole my heart and that's what really hurt

The morning sun when it's in your face really shows your age

But that don't worry me none in my eyes you're everything

I laughed at all of your jokes my love you didn't need to coax

Oh, Maggie I couldn't have tried any more

You lured me away from home, just to save you from being alone

You stole my soul and that's a pain I can do without

All I needed was a friend to lend a guiding hand

But you turned into a lover and

Mother what a lover, you wore me out

All you did was wreck my bed

And in the morning kick me in the head

Oh Maggie I couldn't have tried anymore

You lured me away from home 'cause you didn't want to be alone

You stole my heart I couldn't leave you if I tried

I suppose I could collect my books and get on back to school

Or steal my daddy's cue and make a living out of playing pool

Or find myself a rock and roll band that needs a helpin' hand

Oh Maggie I wish I'd never seen your face

You made a first-class fool out of me

But I'm as blind as a fool can be

You stole my heart but I love you anyway

Maggie I wish I'd never seen your face

I'll get on back home one of these days

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight_,and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Maggie May _are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Monday, December 5, 1977**

Coming off another twelve hour shift, I'm glad to have the next two days off. I push the key into the front door and am grateful for the silence that greets me. There's' no Em, and definitely no Ruthie!

I head toward the living room couch—which is now my make shift bedroom of sorts. I've been here since I was released from the hospital back in August. There's even more silence in this house than ever before. Both of us are on tenterhooks, with tension that's about to burst wide open. We, Ruthie and I, both have so much to say to each other, but, she won't and I can't...at least not yet.

God damn Ruthie is always playing the victim. I mean I'm no paragon of virtue but neither is she!

I head to the bathroom, groaning along the way from the discomfort in my lower abdomen, and stand in front of the sink. I take a look at myself in the mirror and notice that I look like warmed-over cow manure. Puffy eyes, the start of dark circles are forming, and even to me, my eyes look distant, here, but not really _here._ All this tells me is that I really need to lay my ass down and not move it for at least eight hours.

I splash some cold water on my face. These past couple of months, since I last saw _her_, I've been the main event coordinator and sole attendee at the Cullen Pity Party. I can't believe _this_ is my life. I'm a man of few possessions; there's my son, who's my heartbeat, the job I love even if it almost killed me; but not _her_, not Ms. Swan. Instead, I have goddamn Ruthie.

"Jesus H. Christ, Cullen," I groan out loud.

I head back toward the living room. The silence is too much for me, so I walk over and turn on the radio. Walking back to the couch, I hear the guitar strings and the drum beats of Rod Stewart's _Maggie May_. _Well if this don't beat it all_. I _may_ have to stop listening to music entirely. Lately I feel like everything playing is about my sad, pathetic life. And it's being sung for thousands to hear.

Lying down on the couch, I resign myself to listen to the song. Not only is it about Rod Stewart's experience with the older woman whom he gave his virginity to, but it's also about my relationship with Ruthie.

It's funny; this song was released about two years into my 'thing' with Ruthie. She and I used to share a laugh about how this song accurately reveals how we'd met and the progression of our relationship. But now I can't laugh. When Rod's raspy voice tells Maggie he's got something to say to her, it's a little too close for comfort for me.

I turn my back to the radio in an attempt to tune out the singer's voice and hopefully, I'll be less uncomfortable. My mind wanders to how Ruthie and I met. Margaret May Ruth-Ann Gord is her full name. A snowy afternoon on December 5, 1968 is the day we met. Montega, New York is the place.

I'm certain of the date because I'd run like hell from the only home I'd ever known earlier in the day. I'd packed up my few possessions and high-tailed it out of Westerland, New York. Having few options and limited money—but knowing that anywhere would be better than where I was—I took the first bus leaving Westerland. I ended up at a little place called Leelee's.

*****FLASHBACK **— **4 pm on Friday, December 6, 1968** *******

_Lordie, I can't believe that took five hours!_

I shake my head in disgust at the time it took me to get to Montega from Westerland. I'd have bet anything that it should have been a shorter ride. On the map, the two cities looked much closer, but I guess driving a near-to-capacity bus, going about fifty miles an hour and stopping what feels like every, damn minute, _would_ lengthen any trip.

I have no clue where the hell I am since this is my first time leaving Westerland to go anywhere. The clean, refreshing air that I take into my lungs is much different from the stench that clogged my nose shut close while on the bus. On top of the funky smell, I was stuck beside a very large woman who kept bumping into me with each pothole the bus sunk into. Despite all of this, she happily continued reading her Harlequin® romance book.

When the bus driver shouts, "Last stop", I release the breath I am holding, and hurriedly leave the smelly bus. I am so glad to feel hard concrete beneath my shoes…even though it is covered in a light dusting of snow. I'm not sure where to go, but I make a left at the corner of the bus stop and walk. About five minutes or so into my walk, I see the blinking red lights of something through the snow that has suddenly gone from pea-sized flakes to big, fat snowflakes. The oncoming weather forces me to stop and I see a "Help Wanted, Inquire Within" sign. Stomping my foot hard on the mat leading inside, I pull the door open and enter.

I look around and see that some patrons are at the bar area; a few others are seated and bopping their heads to _Ibiza Bar_ by Pink Floyd, and others are milling about. I grip the handle of my suitcase tighter because I'm not sure what type of crowd this is.

"_I might as well ask about that job,"_ I think to myself. Since I don't know anyone in Montega, first thing I need to do is get a job; after that, find a place to sleep for the night.

And with my action plan of sorts worked out, I walk toward the bar area. It's your typical bar with glasses hanging overhead, there's a full-paneled mirror lining the entire backsplash and various liquors arranged in an orderly fashion. Behind the bar is dimly lit but I can still make out a shapely woman.

_Dollars to doughnuts, she'll be a fox to boot, too!_

I once heard that Ray Charles can tell if a woman's good looking or not by feeling her wrist [1]. And you know Ray is as blind as they come! Me? All I need to see is a woman's backside and I know if she's a beauty or not. That was my specialty back in Westerland. Sometimes, I can even tell her age. Here's the secret: women who've popped out a few kids usually have a wider backside.

Anyway, whoever this lady is, she's going to be a sexpot. She won't be no Peggy Lipton, but the more I look at her from behind, the more I'm drawing designs about her. She's wearing a black and white dress that stops mid-thigh. Man, she has killer legs. I can see them wrapped around my...I give myself a shake. I don't have time for where both of my heads were going just a second ago. I slyly adjust my semi-hard length in my pants.

She turns to face me and I see her catch her breath as her eyes take on an inquisitive gleam. As she walks toward me, I can see she's older...but no less of a fox, just an older fox. She has a dishcloth in one hand and interest in her eyes. I smirk as I catch her eye.

"What can I get you, hunk?"

I wasn't about to let her know that I've only ever drank Ballantine beers. Back home, my friends and I would sneak into the abandoned theater downtown and sit on the rooftop drinking our beers and imagine what we'd do once we left Westerland.

"Surprise me."

She comes closer to me, with only the bar top separating us, and now I can see _exactly_ how much older she is. She's got me beat by at least seven or so years. She looks to be sizing me up.

"Are you even old enough to be in here?" [2]

I lean in closer and lick my lips because that seems to get the girls real hot, at least the girls back home.

"I'm old enough to do lots of things, sexy lady."

She doesn't blush like the girls would have back home, and now I'm certain she's got me beat by more years than I'd originally pegged her for.

"Well, all right then, good looking."

She begins doing her bartending thing and I lose interest. I decide to look around the bar again. Out of my periphery, I see that the snow is coming down harder.

_I may have to rent a hotel room for the night. I hope it won't cost more than..._ my internal thoughts are cut short when I see her fire red engine-painted nails push a dark-colored drink toward me. I take the drink in hand and swallow slowly. _This drink is harsh, but good._

She must have noticed my reaction because she says, "So he likes?"

I tip my head toward her with a tight smile.

"You're new around town."

Her statement leads me to believe she knows _a lot_ of people.

"Why do you say that?" I ask, as I sip at my drink.

"I know all the pretty boy's faces around Montega," she tells me confidently.

She seems proud of herself and 'all the pretty boy's faces' she's known. I hide my grimace behind a few more sips of my drink. _Older and she's been around, too_. These two revelations float around my head, and I know she's not my cup of tea. I have no problem with her age just her lack of discretion.

"I'm from Westerland."

"Westerland ... interesting."

"What's so interesting about Westerland? All that's there is a big fat nothing," I say with disgust.

She put an elbow on top of the bar and place her chin in her cupped hand.

"Westerland by itself is not interesting, hunk. But that Westerland produced _you_ makes the place so much more interesting." She grins.

I don't say anything because Momma always said, _'Loose lips, sink ships.'_

"Ruthie ... " I hear from the back.

"Coming ... " she whispers with a wink.

After what seems like a few minutes, Ruthie walks back through the double doors, from what I assume is the kitchen, straight toward me.

"You've had enough of the Cuba Libre, sugar?"

"Yeah, it's good, Ruthie."

She shakes her head and laughs. "So you know my name. Got a name kid?"

"The name's not kid. It's Edward Anthony Masen Cullen."

"That's a mouthful, Eddie."

_Eddie_. Only Momma has ever called me that! I don't correct her because the way she says it makes me miss Momma even if I'm mad as hell at her.

"Well, blame my mother."

I smile slightly at the irony, because it is really my _mother _that messed up life and forced me to leave my only home. I guess she must see the change in my expression or something because she rubs my hand kind of the way someone does to another out of pity.

"Aw, hun, can I get you something?"

_I don't want or need anyone's damn pity_! I may not have chosen to be born to a sorry-ass 'mother', but the hell if I'm not going to start making my own decisions from now on.

"You can get me the manager or owner of this place," I command.

She takes a small step away from the bar, and instantly I feel bad. I mean she has been cordial since I planted my ass in this stool, and here I am being a dipstick. She has nothing to do with the shit-storm that was my life back in Westerland! I rein in my anger and attempt to bring out the charming man Momma raised me to be.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. That was rude. I was thinking about something else and took it out on you."

She nods her head, and I take that as a sign that she's forgiven me.

"You asked if I needed anything?"

Again, she nods and licks her lips. She _seems_ eager to help me even after the stunt I just pulled.

"What I really need help with is what's on the sign out front. Can you tell me what they're looking for?"

The smile that lights up her face is out of this world. She has a pretty smile.

"Oh? Why didn't you just say so?"

"I'm not sure, Ruthie. Maybe I was distracted by Leelees's best pair of legs."

"Compliments will get you everywhere, Eddie." She smirks.

I wink at her. "That's my hope, Ruthie."

"Harold is looking for a kitchen-hand assistant. Know anything about that?"

"Yeah, he tells me what to do and I do it quick, fast, and in a hurry," I say with a chuckle.

"Yup. You got it, Eddie boy. Cute, smart, and likes Cuba Libre, this must be my lucky day."

"I'm not sure luck—"

Her laughter interrupts me. "Harold, get your ass out here," she shouts.

She begins her own interviewing process. "You want this job?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She sucks her teeth. "Cut that ma'am shit out. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Can you do the job?"

"With my hands tied behind my back, Ruthie."

"All right then, the jobs is yours—"

I don't let her finish her statement. "Oh my God, Ruthie, thank you so much—"

"Whoa. Whoa there, Eddie boy," she laughs at my enthusiasm. "I'm not the decision maker but if you let me do the talking for you, the job _will_ be yours."

I'm not sure what she means by that, but then I see a big, burly man with a stained apron coming through the double door.

"Yeah?" He bellows.

Ruthie smiles and then turns to face the approaching Harold.

"This here," she motions her head backward in my direction, "is the son of a friend of mine."

He leans slightly to his right around Ruthie to see me. He doesn't move from his spot in front of the double doors.

He narrows his eyes. "Uh huh?"

"Yeah, and he wants that kitchen job."

He takes a couple of steps toward her. "Really?"

Ruthie straightens her position while still blocking my view of Harold, "yeah."

_Maybe she's a relative of Harold's, because it sounds like she's telling him to hire me._

Harold is now standing in front of Ruthie but all I see is her back. He chuckles. "Oh, he's just a kid."

Instead of responding, Ruthie fiddles with her fingernails.

"Can you peel potatoes, son?"

"I'm nobody's—" was all I could manage to get out.

"What's with the fucking twenty questions, Harold? Give him the damn job already."

"Hey, watch that mouth," Harold says, looking at Ruthie's side profile.

In between their little back and forth, Harold has moved toward the bar, and now he and I have full view of each other. And since we are men, we size each other up._ And in my opinion, he comes up lacking._

Ruthie turns her head to the left eyeing Harold. "Harold ... "

"Ruthie ... " he says, his tone softening.

Her voice lowers. "Harold, do me this solid. He can do the work."

"And what kind of work is that, Ruthie?" he asks slyly.

He talks to Ruthie but looks me square in my eyes. My eyes don't move away from his. It's an unwritten rule among men that the first to break eye contact, is not to be trusted. Or so Momma drilled into my head. There's no need for me to join in their conversation, so I keep my trap shut and my ears open hoping to learn more about them.

"He can peel fucking potatoes, Harold," she insists.

She neither turns to look at Harold, who's now to her right, nor does she turn around to face me.

His eyes stare icily into mine. "That's all you better do," he hisses. With that he heads back through the double doors.

_What the hell just happened here?_

Two things are clear: Harold and Ruthie are an item, and I have a job. My excitement about the latter diffuses my interest in the former.

_One goal down, another left. Now where will I sleep tonight?_

"Thanks, Ruthie. You won't regret sticking your neck out like this for me," I tell her sincerely.

She slowly turns around to face me and purrs, "Oh, I won't, Eddie boy." She walks away from me with a little more sway in her hips that definitely catches my eye.

*****END FLASHBACK*****

**Monday, December 5, 1977**

I come out of my stroll down memory lane just when Rod soulfully bellows out, "You lured me away from home, just to save you from being alone." If I could go back and rewind the hands of time, the things I'd tell my nineteen-year old self! In addition to some choice words, I'd also give that kid a kick in the ass.

When you're nineteen, you think you know everything. Add a woman to that—a beautiful, older woman—that's constantly throwing herself at you and, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the disaster that is now my life. A lust-filled disaster—but a disaster is what you have nonetheless.

*****FLASHBACK **— **Friday, June 20, 1969*****

Sometimes it's hard to believe that I've been Leelee's kitchen-hand assistant for six months. I can't say that I've learned a lot about my new profession because Momma had already taught me everything I needed for this job. Simply thinking about her —_Momma_—I get choked up.

About four weeks ago I went back to Westerland to bury her. My 'Aunt Liz' handled the entire affair, which was fine by me. And when it was over, I booked out of there as quickly as I could. I hope to never have to go back to that sorry ass place ever again!

I head over to the sink and turn the water on. The reflection in the mirror halts my movement. I am working on too little sleep and I'm also mentally exhausted.

_Move ya ass, Cullen,_ I think to myself.

I am on a fifteen minute bathroom break and you can bet that Harold is timing my ass. He's been trying to find a reason to let me go, so with that thought, I hurriedly wash my hand and leave the bathroom.

The instant I enter the hallway, Ruthie's eyes find me and she winks at me. And that's why I'm mentally exhausted.

_Ruthie. _

Goddamn Ruthie.

She's is a hungry, man-eater, and right now, she wants to have me for breakfast, lunch, and dinner

There's only so much running a man can do. She's been scheming a way to get in my bed, and has told damn near anybody that would listen that she wants me. I've learned a few things about Ruthie—most of which I don't like. First, she and Harold are _definitely _screwing each other, _but_ she's still on the make for me. Second, she can drink anyone under the table with her eyes closed. Third, she smokes like a chimney. Finally, in spite of all that, she's still a goddamn sexpot.

Whenever I find myself tempted to give into Ruthie, I think about the first three things that I absolutely hate about her. But there are days when even those are not enough to stop me from imagining her long legs wrapped around me. I'm only a man for God sakes! Sometimes, it's hard to trick my mind that my hand is a woman's soft folds.

And today is one of those days.

Just then, said woman enters the kitchen with her hands on her hips. "Where's my fucking order, Harold?"

Sometimes Ruthie doubles as a waitress to earn some extra money.

"Hey! Watch your mouth!" Harold tells her while shoving the order toward her.

Harold constantly tells Ruthie to watch her mouth when she curses, and Ruthie constantly ignores Harold's demands.

Harold is still wary of me even though I'm on time, do my job, and stay the hell away from Ruthie. But he still wants me gone from Leelee's. I've only made six months because _Ruthie_ wants me here. I have a couple more months here before I solidify my next move.

Awhile back, I learned that Harold is thirty seven-years old and Ruthie had recently turned twenty nine. According to the gossip around here, Ruthie and Harold started messing around with each other about three years back, right after Leelee, Harold's wife and part owner of the bar, died. Harold let Ruthie treat this place like it was hers, and when you give a person like Ruthie that much control, you're in for a ride!

Thinking about Harold and Ruthie is too much for me. I go back to peeling potatoes. What seems like a short time later, but is actually two hours later, I flex my fingers to loosen them up. I glance at the clock above the double doors that lead out to the bar, and it reads 7pm. _Good_. My shift ends in about three hours. I'll have just enough time to walk home, eat, shower, and dress for tonight. All I can think about is being alive and well, and celebrating my nineteenth birthday.

"Lower your goddamn voice, woman," Harold hisses as he enters the kitchen. He's dragging Ruthie behind him.

"You can't shut me up!"

Harold groans and slams his hand on the stainless steel kitchen counter. "She don't mean nothin' to me."

"Then why the hell are you fucking her?"

"Aw, come on, Ruthie. It's not like you're exactly free."

They continue yelling at each other like I'm not standing a few feet from them.

H_uh? What the hell does he mean?_

"That's not what we're talking about here."

"Then what the hell are you yapping away about," he yells.

She makes an indescribable sound. "I don't want to do this no more."

He takes a step toward her and lowers his voice. "Ruthie, stop. I'm all you have. I mean he's left now, right? Now we can be together like I want us to be."

"No."

"Ruthie ... " he pleads.

"I don't want you anymore, Harold."

He whips his head to face me. "Oh, so now you want sonny boy Cullen, is that it?" He sneers.

"Who I want is not your business!" she spits out.

He sucks his teeth and turn back to face her. "We'll see about that."

"There's nothing to see about. We are done." She flounces out of the kitchen and I'm left staring at Harold's back as he stares at the doors Ruthie's left through.

**1 o'clock-ish on Saturday, June 21, 1969**

I'm mad that the dumb taxi driver took more than twenty minutes to get to my house, and then another thirty minutes to get here. I wanted to get to the club before the end of my birthday.

"Damn it," I mutter, slamming the car door.

I look up at the darkening sky and breathe out. The night is still young! Nothing's gonna stop me from celebrating my birthday. I'm supposed to be meeting up with some buddies. I head nod John, the bouncer, and enter Club 69. It's smoky, dark and loud. I come here because the drinks are out of sight and Montega's best looking skirts are always floating around. Thinking about the dark-headed beauty I bagged last weekend, I make up my mind that I'm not leaving here alone tonight. Especially not on my damn birthday!

I walk over to the bar, hoping that my buddies are here already. Instantly, I recognize Tall Man—I don't know his real name because he introduced himself to me as Tall Man—and Shotta—he got his nickname by being a quick shooter as a police officer. I met these guys from the boarding house I've been living at.

I stumbled on Mrs. Cope's House for Singles when I left Leelee's the day I got my job. It was just my luck that Mrs. Cope needed a new boarder. Each boarder rents a room and shares the common areas, like the kitchen, living room and bathroom. Mrs. Cope is a sweet old lady who started renting out her five-bedroom home when her husband passed away. She only rents to single, working men. She runs a tight ship and does not allow overnight guests. The rent is cheap, only fifty bucks a week, so I'm able to save a little money. The only hiccup was the overnight guest policy. It _sometimes_ puts a cramp in a man's lifestyle. I usually rent hotel rooms when I want more than a chokehold from my five fingers.

"Let me get a Greyhound," I tell the bartender.

Since I've been at Leelee's, Ruthie has made it her business to school me in the ways of hard liquor. She'd like to school me in other areas...but I will not sleep with Ruthie. Besides, she wants more than a one-night roll in the sack with me. And that's not something I'm willing to give to anyone, especially her.

Ruthie is constantly telling me to 'drink like a man and leave the beers to the boys.' Now I know the difference between a Cubra Libre, a Mint Julep, and an Old Fashioned. I also know whether those drinks should be served in a Collins, Highball or table-glass. Things I had no idea about six months ago.

"Cullen," both Shotta and Tall Man say at the same time.

"How's it looking tonight?" I ask no one in particular.

"It's good, man. A little bit of everyone is in here," responds Tall Man.

"Eh, slim pickings," mutters Shotta.

Shotta is a bit of a snob—a snob when it came to skirts, that is. How can you be a snob to something that's so good? In my book, if a skirt has a pretty face, why not try to see what's underneath. I mean, it's not like you're going marry her!

I face the dance floor and start sipping on the drink the bartender handed me. _It's not that bad in here_. I see a few skirts I'd do in a minute.

"As I live and breathe," I hear someone off to my right say.

Even though I can't see the mystery woman's face in the dimly lit bar, I like her husky-sounding voice. I turn my head and see silver shoes, legs, and skin. _Okay, so far so good. _She takes a couple steps toward me and I see red-stained, pouty lips. I raise my eyes a little further up and I see Ruthie's blue-colored eyes.

_What the hell is she doing here?_

"Ruthie."

"Eddie."

As she's walks out from the shadow, I wonder what kind of underwear she has under the sheer black number she's wearing, or if she's wearing any at all. Thinking about what is or isn't underneath her dress makes me straighten up, since my pants have now tented a bit. Luckily, I'm wearing a Nehru jacket so it wouldn't be so noticeable!

"What are you doing here?"

"Wanna dance, Eddie boy?" she purrs.

The damn zig zag lines on her dress are messing with my head and I do something I know I shouldn't. Suddenly, I'm tired of running from her; we'll bang and get it out of our systems. I step closer to her so she could feel my hardness. I'm grateful that I don't have to lean my head down too far. She's a tall woman without heels—with heels, like the ones she's wearing now; her legs are just begging to be wrapped around me!

I push her head slightly and breathe in her ear whispering, "I'm not a damn boy, Ruthie."

She trails one finger down the buttons on my jacket, and then brushes the back of her hand over my hardness. "No you're not, are you?"

I don't know if it's the Greyhound, her dress, my nineteenth birthday, or a combination of all three, but I decide that I will show her _just_ how much of a boy I'm not.

"Come on. Let's dance," I order.

I don't give her time to answer as I pull her along with me to the dance floor. We dance to a little bit of everything the deejay plays. We don't leave to use the bathroom or refill our now, forgotten drinks. And when Bob Dylan's _Lay Lady La_y comes on, my decision firms up; I'll take Ruthie home tonight...well, to the Hotel Six up the road. I'm horny and like I said, I'm tired of running from her.

"You. Me. Hotel. Now," I command while grinding my hardness into her so she knows I mean business.

Her eyes glazes over and the corners of her mouth tilts upward. "That's what I've been waiting to hear for the last six months."

*****END FLASHBACK*****

**Monday, December 5, 1977**

Ruthie was not like any other girl I'd been with. She knew what she wanted, what she liked and wasn't afraid to let me know. I'm not going to lie, sex with her was good. A planned, one night fuck, on my end, turned into another, then another. Soon I had more than one damn, overnight duffle bag at her house. I had a drawer! A little after that, I was living with her.

The thing about living together is that you get to know each other intimately. A month into our 'thing' was when I knew my true feelings about Ruthie. We're like oil and vinegar...we only went together, and very well, I might add, in the bedroom. And after a while, even the sex wasn't enough to keep me interested.

Looking back, I should have left especially since I knew I could never love her. Two months into our thing, I'd packed to leave but she came home crying about being late. I'd asked jokingly, but wishing like hell it was true, if she meant that she was late for work. Two days later, a doctor confirmed what the pregnancy test revealed: I was going to be a father _and_ shoot my dick off, Ruthie was the mother. To this day, I'm not sure how she got pregnant because she told me she was on the pill. All I know is that my life hasn't been the same since that day in August of '69.

**1960s terms used in this chapter:**

booked - leave an area, go very fast by car

dip stick - an idiot

drawing designs - usually a guy looking a girl over REAL good

easy - a girl who's a sure thing, sexually

fox - an outstanding looking woman

go all the way - would have sex with

hunk - what a girl would call a good looking man

on the make -someone who's looking hard for another person sexually

outta sight - fantastic

pad - someone's house

scheming - when someone is really interested in the opposite sex

sex pot - sexy or seductive woman

skirt - a girl

solid - a favor

steady - boyfriend or girlfriend

winnie - when things have really gotten bad

[1] _Ray_, released 2004. Quote from character Fathead. www. imdb title / tt0350258 / quotes (remove the spaces)

[2] cougartown slang . html (remove the spaces)

**Author's Note:**

May 15, 2013 – I believe there is still at least one day to vote for _The Songs of Our Lives_ over at www . tehlemonadestand . net (remove the spaces – put in this exact wording, even though there's a spelling error with 'the'). RoseArcadia recommended the story to be included in the site's The Award Winning Fic Collection and added to the website's "Recommended Reading List" on the side bar. But it all depends on votes. So, please vote.

The second news I would like to share: I've asked SunFlowerFran3759 to taking over the beta'ing responsibilities that JaspersDestiny held. Unfortunately, JaspersDestiny's real life does not lend itself to continue beta'ing this story. SunFlowerFran3759 beta'd chapter ten and will do so throughout the rest of the story. I will continue to work with my Creative Beta, MissJanuary.

If I've not said this before, let me boldy declare my extreme gratitude for the hard, tireless, and FREE work JaspersDestiny and MissJanuary which has improved the story. Their work, thus far, is what helped each of **you** have decided to read, favor, follow and review _The Songs of Our Lives_.

I am also looking for a pre-reader for future chapters. If you're interested, please PM me.

Visit luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove spaces) for songs, looks and much more about _The Songs of Our Lives._


	12. Chapter 11

Shout-out to the first three reviewers of Chapter 10: jea28, Hoodfabulous, and sami69. My sincere appreciation to RoseArcadia for recommending this fic on The Lemonade Stand as well as sending out tweets about the story. Thank you those that voted. To everyone that's reviewed and favored _The Songs of Our Lives_, welcome, and my heartfelt thanks. Come join the madness over at www. facebook groups / 158767884293997 / (remove the spaces).

Chapter 11 ~ The Tracks of My Tears (by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles)

People say I'm the life of the party

'Cause I tell a joke or two

Although I might be laughing loud and hearty

Deep inside I'm blue

So take a good look at my face

You'll see my smile looks out of place

If you look closer, it's easy to trace

The tracks of my tears

I need you, need you

Since you left me if you see me with another girl

Seeming like I'm having fun

Although she may be cute, she's just a substitute

Because you're the permanent one

So take a good look at my face

You'll see my smile looks out of place

Yeah, look a little bit closer and it's easy to trace

The tracks of my tears

I need you, need you

Outside I'm masquerading

Inside my hope is fading

Just a clown ooh yeah since you put me down

My smile is my make up

I wear since my break up with you

Baby take a good look at my face

You'll see my smile looks out of place

Yeah just look closer, it's easy to trace

The tracks of my tears baby, baby baby baby

Take a good look at my face

Yeah you'll see my smile looks out of place

Look little bit closer, it's easy to trace

The tracks of my tears

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight _and the characters of _Twilight_ belong to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _The Tracks of My Tears_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced. This chapter mentions some known public figures.

**Thursday, July 20, 1978**

I've been back home for almost a month and I'm loving it!

At first, when I went to Portsmore Academy I was bitter; bitter that I was _only_ going there because of stupid Jetpup. I was bitter that I wouldn't know anyone. I was bitter that I'd just met someone—you know, _the lying, cheating bastard_—and would not get a chance to get to know him. But then I met Rosie, and Portsmore Academy started to look up. Things with _him_ had made Portsmore even that much more bearable. But then it all hit the fan when there was no more Rosie. Then_ he_ got shot and _she_ called me with the truth. Just thinking about that mess make the nagging headache I've had for about a week now feel like it wants to make a reappearance.

"Damn it," I say out loud, rubbing my forehead.

I've noticed that I'm talking more and more to myself than ever before. If I didn't know me and could vouch for myself, I'd think I needed to see someone about all these silent chitchats bursting into empty space.

"Izzy! Phone," my mother shouts from somewhere in the house. Maybe she's downstairs. I last saw her taking some of my father's clothes in a basket toward the laundry room in the basement.

I wince a little because I definitely feel the headache move from nagging to a number two on those pain level charts you always see in a doctor's office. Sitting down on my twin bed, I pick up my phone and exhale. Seeing the phone in my hand against my skin reminds how much I love this phone. It's like a ball of pink, cotton candy.

"Hello."

"And, how are you today?"

Oh, Jesus. Everytime I hear his voice my heart goes pitter patter and I get warm all over. He puts a smile on my face. "Oh, I'm fine, a nagging headache, but you've made it instantly disappear."

"I'm always glad to be of service to you, Bella."

I cringe, hearing his dreaded nickname. I've told him time and again to call me Izzy, but he insists on calling me Bella since it means beautiful in Italian. I try to give him a pass on the whole nickname thing because his voice is a cross between baritone singers, Roger Whittaker and Al Green. I know you know Mr. Al 'Let's Stay Together' Green and well, that Whittaker guy had a song back in '75 that I loved for some strange reason. It was on the radio all the damn time in the summer. Now what was the name of it again? Um...um...oh, that's it. _The Last Fare_.

" … So you want to join me there, then?"

"Excuse me?"

"Were you not paying attention again?"

I do that sometimes with him—tune him out. I don't mean to, especially since I like how his voice sounds, but I've found myself not paying attention to him as I used to.

"No … um … no, I heard you."

"Really, then what did I say?"

"You want us to meet up … ah … later on tonight," I say _almost _confidently.

"I know you heard that part. But what did I say before?"

"Whatever you said doesn't matter because the answer is yes. Just tell me the time and place?" I feel myself getting excited about tonight even though I don't know the details. Maybe that's what I need—a night on the town, listen to some good tunes and dance a little. Let my hair down.

I hear him laugh, but I also hear some other far-away sounds like he's near the training field or something. "I'll be at your door tonight at 8 o'clock."

I shake my head at him, even though he can't see it, because he's always so punctual. I think it's the military in him. This means I'll have to start getting ready from 6 o'clock. It just takes me awhile to get myself together.

"Bella, did you even hear me?" I hear more laughing. I don't mind his laughs because I don't feel like he's laughing at me.

"I heard you, Seth. Tonight, 8 o'clock. But what I still don't know is where you're taking me?" I ask.

"I guess you'll just have to wait and see. Now won't you?"

I grumble a little bit. "You better be glad you're cute!"

He laughs some more saying, "I'll see you. Tonight. At 8. At your door. I'll be the one in white."

"Okay. Well, I'll see you tonight, at 8 … but only because you're cute," I repeat, hanging up the phone. I feel the last bit of the headache fly out the window as I start to figure out what to wear.

I jump off my bed squealing with delight and head to my closet. Weighing my options, I spy two perfect contenders. Rosie and I bought them together on one of our last times together.

*****FLASHBACK — Saturday, June 18, 1977*****

"What's the matter, girlie?"

I blow out a breath. I've been feeling really depressed lately. I look over at Rosie's normally well-made bed which is now filled with clothes she's taken from our closet to pack up. Books are thrown every which way. She's packing up for the summer; she's leaving me here and heading back to Philly on Monday. Ugh, Monday. Monday is also Cullen's birthday—he'll be in Upper Salem and I'll be _here_. God damn Charles, if he'd saved money like he told my mother he would, I would be heading back home. As it is, I'm stuck in Cary for the entire freaking summer!

I don't answer her and just go back to staring out the opened windows. Today is really sunny. It's a nice day even if I feel like there's a perpetual cloud hanging over me.

I hear some rustling behind me, and my bed dips. I let out another sigh—even to my ears, I sound like a bleating lamb and you how their sounds are annoying, even if the lamb is cute—and I lie back on my bed. Looking up at the ceiling, I don't think I've ever noticed how many cracks there are up ...

"Izzy, you're talking out aloud again," she says shaking her head.

"Huh?"

"I know what you need … what we both need. We need a little retail therapy. That'll chase the blues away."

That's Rosie's cure for everything—you have a headache, go shopping; your dog died, go shopping; your money is actin' a fool, go shopping! As she's said, "shopping cures anything that ails you."

I have yet to believe her, but she's adamant in proving her case. And because I only have two days left with my friend, I nod my head, telling her, "Okay, let's go shopping."

Heading over to our closet, I decide to wear my jean-colored skirt with the red piping and a red top. And as an afterthought, I swipe the red and blue gingham headscarf from the hook where I keep all my scarves. I spy my favorite pair of red Dr. Scholl's®. Rosie looks good in her green and white maxi skirt with white bikini-like top and white scarf. _We clean up well, if I do say so myself_. We grab our purses and head out to our favorite spot, Lora Lee.

As we walk into the store, I know right away that whatever they're selling, I can't buy. I have a case of my-fund-is-running-on-empty! I walk further into the store—Rosie's gone off to my right—and, looking at these far out stuff, I realize that I need a damn job. The dresses in this store are really beautiful. I rifle through a rack with all types of maxi dresses. _This floral number with the ruffles isn't so bad. But then again, this floral halter top isn't bad either _… _but this shimmery pink halter dress has Rosie all over it_, I silently think. Only she could wear these dresses and get away with it. I mean she does look like Sunny Harnett—she's all legs and high cheekbones. On me, I'd probably look like Humpty Dumpty wearing her mother's clothing. Ugh. Damn Renee Swan and her dominant short gene!

"Can I help you, young lady?" the sales clerk asks me.

I suck in my breath at her beauty. Even though she looks to be in her mid-sixties, she's absolutely beautiful. She looks so much like that fashion model … you know the one? She was on the cover of _Harper's Bazaar_™ at the age of twenty-seven back in … um, the forties or something. _What was her name?_ I look at her some more and the model's name, Dorian Leigh, pops in my head. I know I'm smiling like an idiot, but I don't care, because I've guessed who she looks like.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Dorian Leigh?"

"Oh honey, you're sweet, but, I get that all the time," she says with a kind smile. "How in the world do you know about fashion models from the '40s? That was way before your time," she tells me with a grin, adjusting her black-rimmed glasses.

"I tend to store a lot of usel … I mean I know the most interesting things," I tell Dorian Leigh's look-alike. Her grin morphs into a laugh and I think she knows I was about to say that I have a lot of useless information, but she doesn't call me on it.

"You have some really nice things in here."

I hear a squeal off to my right, where Rosie's been holed up since we got here. "Excuse me; I think my friend has found some things she'll be getting."

"Okay, I'll be in the back if you decide you need some help," she says, walking away.

"Izzy … this dress is the boss!"

In her hands is a dress that is the most indescribable shade of silver with sequins all over it. Now, I look good in any shade of blue, but damn it if my skin doesn't sparkle in anything silver!

"It sure is decent, Rosie," I agree, touching the dress.

From afar the fabric looks really heavy, but up close you can see it shimmering and it's lightweight.

She nudges me. "You should totally get this."

"And wear it where?"

"When you and Cullen go on your first real date, silly."

My cheeks turn upward and I don't need a mirror to tell me that I'm turning the color of a cut beet. That's been happening a lot. I can't help it. The mere mention of his name does things to me from my head to my toes.

I finger the dress once more, sighing. "I don't have the bread for this, Rosie."

"Well, I'm getting it. It'll be my going away present to you."

"Rosie … "

"Bird … "

And I know that's the end of the discussion. She's buying it for me whether I like it or not. We bring the item to the cash register and Rosie is jumping around like a kid in a candy store.

She squeals and then says, "I'm psyched you're getting this. When you step out in this with your man, you'll be one stylin' chick!"

I shake my head at her.

The salesclerk may have heard Rosie's loud voice because she parts the curtain that separates the back area and the main part of the store. Walking toward the cash register and us, she looks at the item Rosie's put on the counter.

"This is a lovely choice, young lady," the Dorian Leigh look-alike tells Rosie.

"Thanks," Rosie agrees, then point at me. "But it's not for me, It's for my mellow here."

The Dorian Leigh look-alike looks at me. "This will certainly look good against your skin, sweetie." Then she eyes Rosie. "Good choice, now, I know you're a really good friend."

"The best," I pipe in from my spot behind Rosie.

"You're the best," Rosie says, waiting for me to give her some skin on her open palm that she's shoved at me. I do because that's our thing.

"You know I have another dress that you'll look real good in," she addresses me.

Now I'm turning a different shade of red … this time out of pure embarrassment. "No, that's not—"

"Oh, now, hush. You've got to see this dress."

She goes through the curtains and in no time, she comes back with another gorgeous silvery number. Just seeing it, if I thought I couldn't afford the dress Rosie has picked, I know for damn sure I can't afford this mouthwatering piece the Dorian Leigh look-alike is dangling from her hands.

Against my better judgment, I slightly push Rosie to the side to better see the dress that's now on top of the counter. It's like a combination of silver and gold. The knit dress—yeah, I am so rubbing the fabric in ecstasy—has a bow in the front, but the back … My God! The back has, like ... chains draping the upper half and the same chain-type fringe look is on both sleeves. Can you say nice? I can so see myself on Cullen's arm in this dress.

"I haven't been able to sell this dress. Not everyone can wear these colors without looking like a walking Christmas tree—and not the good kind," the Dorian Leigh look-alike snorts.

"Um … " I say, hesitating.

Rosie tells her, "We would love to put Bird in this fabulous dress of yours but we just can't—"

"I'll make you a deal. You can pay me the price of the dress you originally wanted," she says, pointing to the other metallic dress Rosie had picked, "for both dresses."

"No, we couldn't—" I try to tell the Dorian Leigh look-alike.

"Yes we can and we are!" Rosie tells her excitedly. The only other thing Rosie loves more than shopping is getting a bargain _while_ shopping. Quickly, Rosie pulls out three, ten dollar bills and hands them to her.

"Thank you so much … " I start off.

"The name's Lora Lee, precious, and the pleasure is all mine. You better wear the hell out of this dress," she winks at me.

*****END FLASHBACK *****

**Thursday, July 20, 1978**

I smile as I remember how Rosie and I left Lora Lee's laughing like hyenas over the dresses. That weekend was bittersweet. She left the following Monday, on Cullen's birthday, while I gushed to him in my letter about the dresses I got, and how he'd die when he saw them.

Taking out both dresses from my closet, I'm so glad that bastard never saw them or rather, me in any of them. I make my choice and head to the bathroom to get ready for Seth. My shower is a little long because I exfoliate, moisturize, shave and wash all my particulars. Can't go out stinking or looking like a hairy wildebeest, now can I?

Closing my bedroom door, I see my idol smiling at me. About a year ago, while I was still at Portsmore Academy, my friends and I started watching _Charlie's Angels_. You would think we watched it because the stars were all strong, smart, and beautiful women. No, we watched because the lovely ladies were members of TLC. You know, titty-less committee … in lay man's term, those of us ladies who still have to stuff our bras with tissue! I'd always felt I was the sole member of TLC until I went to Portsmore Academy. That place was bursting at the seams with a bunch of ladies like me.

Now, I'm no lesbian but I'd do Farrah Fawcett in a heartbeat! That hair, those teeth, the killer body … so yeah, the poster of her in that red swimsuit is hanging on the back of my door like I'm some lovesick teenager. Seeing her hanging there with her white teeth and wind-swept hair gives me an idea of which dress I'm going to wear tonight, and how I'm going to wear my hair. I'll have Farrah's hair, if it kills me, wearing my gold and silver-fringed dress and my come-get-me silver shoes. Can you say wicked, 'cause that's how I'll look in a couple of hours!

I start laying out the items I need to get ready: my hair brush; my Gillette® super, curling iron; my hot-as-hell handheld Schick™ hair dryer; my fabulous dress; my Simone Pérèle underwear (because really, there's no way I can wear the matching bra with this dress!) and my three-inch Boho Geoffrey Beene Bag silver heels. Picking up the shoes, I caress them gently and thank the shoe gods for designing the perfect pair of shoes that make my legs look like they go on forever—even though I only stand at five feet, two inches!

I get to work and don't realize where the time has gone until I hear the doorbell. Leaning toward my dresser mirror, I pucker my lips and put on my new favorite lip gloss—my Polly Bergen silver mauve tube lip gloss. I'm not sure what this gloss is made of but it makes my lip look shiny without looking like I slipped into an open tub of Crisco shortening. You know Crisco. It's the thing your mother uses to make that tasty, fried chicken. Can you say good, but greasy?

I head down the stairs to see my brother opening our front door. Seth towers over Harim and I see that he has on some Western-themed shirt and what looks like white jeans, I think. I see them entering the kitchen, but I don't make my presence known and wait for them to go through the door before I come down the last couple of steps. I tiptoe as best I could in three-inch heels to hear what they talk about. My mother greets Seth warmly.

Through the door, I hear a muffled response that sounds like, "We going to eat first, ma'am."

Most likely he's answering a question from my mother since Harim is a bit of a snob. If you're not pouring over the written word as a profession, then Harim doesn't have much conversation with you. I'd already given Seth the heads-up about my weirdo brother and he's been over enough to let Harim's dismissiveness slide off his back.

"Yes ma'am." I'm not sure what Renee asks but Seth's next response clues me in. "I'll have her home before her curfew."

No, that means I'll be home by twelve. I'd hope we'd be going dancing or someplace with loud music after we ate. Damn!

My mother clears her throat, so I press my ear that much closer to the door to hear her response. "That's not … you can … by two, if you like," I pick-up through the door.

It sounds like she's extending my curfew, I think. Wow, 2 am. Sheesh, Renee must already see me married and pushing out Seth's babies or something. She was never this nice to Jetpup. I'm not sure what Seth's response is, but I hear my mother's voice next.

"Sure I'll tell Mr. ... "

Their voices seem to be getting clearer which means they are probably heading back toward the living room which means I need to … I start sprinting in my three-inch heels from the kitchen door to the steps leading upstairs. In my haste, I almost damn near fall and break my neck when my left heel catches on the small tear in our carpet. Thank God I make it up the last couple of the steps just when I hear my mother say, "You guys have a good time tonight. I'll let her know you're here." I rush to the bathroom and try to slow down my breathing.

"Izzy?" She sounds close so she may be on the stairs coming toward me.

"In the bathroom, mom."

"Oh. Seth is here baby."

"Thanks," I kind of mutter while applying more gloss. I hope she thinks the rapid rise and fall of my chest is excitement and not because I just did a Wilma Rudolph-like sprint up the steps just now.

"Calm down."

"I'm just nervous, is all," I lie.

"It's just Seth. You guys have gone out lots of times before."

She's right. We have gone out a lot of other times since I've been home. But tonight feels different somehow. I don't respond to her last statement as I leave the bathroom and head for the stairs again.

"Wow, Bella, you look beautiful."

I know this. I look beautiful.

"Thanks," I tell him once I reach his side.

"Okay, Mrs. Swan—"

"No more of the ma'am or Mrs. Swan business, you hear. Won't you call me Renee, Seth?" My mother asks, pulling out her flirting skills and touching his hand.

He smiles a little—I mean, who can resist a flirting Renee?—and tells her, "Uh … sure. Yes, ma'a...I mean Renee."

I guess it's the military in him. He can't seem to help using a title when he refers to those in a place of authority.

"All right, then, we're Audi 5000!" I say to no one in particular to break up the little love fest, and to hurry us toward the start of our night.

"Izzy, I have no idea what you've said. I don't know why you kids have to speak in code that's hard to understand," she yammers on.

That's Renee for you. She's the official Izzy ballbuster, if there's such a thing.

"Mom, we're leaving now. So, I'll see you at … "

"Two, Izzy. You'll see us at two and not a minute later, young lady."

By the way she answers me I totally believe she knows I was eavesdropping. But I don't care. It's Thursday … I have no classes or a job I need to be at early, tomorrow morning. I have an extended curfew. I look good and my man looks smokin'. What's not to love about this night?

My lungs greedily suck in the balmy, night air as Seth and I walk toward his car. An AMC Javelin, if you please, fire engine red, 1974. I only know the type of car since he's told me a million times. He gets a little defensive when I relegate this beauty to being _just _a car … his words, not mine; men and their cars, ugh.

He opens the door for me and I catch him looking at my legs. I do a little dance in my head. Maybe he'll get to second base tonight. I mean he's attractive, nice, and has the voice of as a Greek god (or what my imagination thinks a Greek god's voice sounds like) … but he just doesn't, oh, I don't know. It's like Cullen has totally ruined me for other men. If I'm to be honest, and I always try to be honest, Seth is no Cullen. Not even close. He doesn't stir up all those crazy, mixed-up emotions like Cullen does.

I can't believe I mention _him_ by name when I haven't done so in close to a year. He's always just _him_.

"Damn it!" I groan out loud.

Watching Seth walk in front of the car to get to the driver's side, I make up my mind that tonight we'll get to second base even if I have to imagine that Seth is _him_. Had I known how my night would end, I would have probably stayed home.

But then again … maybe not!

**1970s terms used in this chapter [1]:**

Audi 5000 - leaving someplace quickly

boss - cool/awesome

bread - cash/money

chick - girl

decent - very cool

far out - cool

mellow - friend

psyched - excited

slap me some skin - give a high five

stylin' - decked out in a cool outfit

totally - yeah/sure

wicked - awesome

[1] www . inthe70s generated / terms . shtml (take out the spaces)

**A/N:** Check out the blog luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for chapter title songs, looks and much more.


	13. Chapter 12

Shout-out to the first three reviewers of Chapter 11: 3c cullen, shadowed by passion, and shaz308. To everyone that's reviewed and favored _The Songs of Our Lives_, welcome, and my heartfelt thanks. Come join the madness over at www. facebook groups / 158767884293997 / (remove the spaces).

Chapter 12 ~ These Arms of Mine (by Otis Redding)

These arms of mine

They are lonely

Lonely and feeling blue

These arms of mine

They are yearning

Yearning from wanting you

And if you

Would let them

Hold you, oh how grateful I will be

These arms of mine

They are burning

Burning from wanting you

These arms of mine

They are wanting

Wanting to hold you

And if you

Would let them hold you

Oh how grateful I will be

Come on, come on baby

Just be my little woman (yeah)

Just be my lover I need somebody,

(Somebody) To treat me right

(Oh) I need your warm loving arms to hold me tight

And I need your tender lips too

Hold me, hold me

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight _and the characters of _Twilight_ belong to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _These Arms of Mine_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Thursday, July 20, 1978**

"This song is dedicated to all those missing their lovers tonight," declares the host of Midnight Blues.

There's this program comes on at midnight, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, on 106.3 FM, and they predominantly play love songs. All types of love songs—you've been a fool to your love; you were fooled by love; your love has left you for another; you have two lovers and don't know what to do. I'm sure you know exactly the type of songs I'm referring. Right now, Otis Redding is soulfully belting out, "_These arms of mine. They are lonely. Lonely and feeling blue. These arms of mine. They are yearning. Yearning from wanting you._"

I lean backward on my headrest and listen to 'Mr. Pitiful' [1] himself sing his heart out about begging a woman to come back to him. I find myself thinking about my Ms. Swan. She should have left Ohio by now. But the last time I called Myron to see if he could get any information out of Rosie for me, he came back empty-handed. Hopefully, I'll be able to find her again just like I did when she first went away. I'm not sure what I'll do if I can't. The mere thought that I _may_ _not_ find her again, ups my already funky mood to the nth power.

_I knew I should have stayed home tonight._

A quick survey of the nearly packed parking lot at Club Jenny further solidifies my thoughts about tonight. I don't know why I let Bent talk me into meeting him here tonight. I guess he's trying to take my mind off what happened a year ago—you know, the gunshot that almost killed me.

I hand my keys to the valet and head nod John, as I enter through the club's doors.

"Damn, it's hot," I mutter, shrugging off my red and blue patterned jean jacket.

_That feels better_.

Now I'm just in my striped, red and white t-shirt and jeans that matches my jacket. I head over to the bar to get something to wet my whistle. Even though I'm driving, I can at least sip on a beer or two to get me through the night.

Bent should be here in about ten minutes. Maybe if I get a beer for the two of us now, this night can end in under an hour. He'll feel good that he got me out of the house and I'll feel good that he can finally shut up about my need to express my feelings of almost getting killed.

"Tommy, let me get two Billy Beers," I shout to the bartender.

He knows to look out for me when I come here so I don't have to wait all night for a lousy beer. Now you know I'm in a foul mood if I'm calling any of Cafe Jenny's liquor lousy. Tommy hands me two cans of beer and two napkins. I pop the top off one and face the dance floor to do a little crowd surfing.

"It sure is crowded in here tonight," I grumble dispassionately. "Maybe everyone has some sort of anniversary today," I snicker to myself, because the irony that there are other people here tonight who are celebrating a happy occasion, while I'm out to celebrate surviving a gunshot, is somewhat funny—at least to me.

I see the top of Bent's head coming toward the bar. I guess I'm not the only one who needs a little motivation for tonight's festivities. _I really, _really _should have stayed home!_ The closer Bent comes to the bar, the more I see his face is screwed up like he just sucked on ten, lemon flavored ZotZ candies. I also see that there's someone about a foot shorter walking beside him. And now, I know that I should have _really, really, really_ stayed home. I also know why Bent is scowling.

_What the hell is she doing here?_

"Cullen," Bent blows out what sounds like a frustrated breath. I just respond with my usual head nod.

"I'm going to the bathroom," she tells Bent.

I wait until she's out of earshot. "What the hell, man? I thought tonight was just us?"

He takes a swig of the Billy Beer I'd ordered for him. "I couldn't stop her. Mama told me to get her out of the house since she's done with school and all," he laments, shaking his head.

Bent's little sister was annoying as hell. About fifteen years ago, Ms. Warris, Bent's mother, married Sergeant Tom Brown blending their families; but for some reason, his mother still goes by Ms. Warris, go figure. _If I ever do something as foolish as get married, my woman is going to change her damn name or so help me God_, I rant to myself. Anyway, Ms. Warris already had Bent and Sergeant Brown, may he rest in peace, had _her _… Tanya. Bent and Tanya are as different as night and day. Truly. The most glaring difference is that she's white and he's black. Back in '73, right Bent and I became partners, Sergeant Brown died in the line of duty. When I went to their house to pay my respect, I met Tanya for the first time. I think she was about twenty years old then, and boy was she handsy. She's cute, I guess, but she's Bent's _little_ sister. I wish she would get it through her head that I could never want her, even if she wasn't Bent's sister.

Well, speak of the devil and she shall appear.

"Hey, what are you guys drinking?" she asks Bent, but her eyes are glued on me.

Well, not on me, but more like my forearms, because that's where her intense perusal stopped as she walked back from the bathroom toward the bar.

"Billy Beer. Want one?" Bent responds.

"No thanks. I'm in the mood for a little something sweet with a kick to it," she licks her cherry red lips as her eyes travels from my forearms to my face, and I try to hide my grimace.

I don't think Bent's sees her lip-licking action, or the night would have surely come to an end. _Damn Bent's eyesight from hell_, I shout in my head.

"So, what do you want then?"

After her third lip-licking, I want to hand her some lip gloss in case her lips are dry, which could _be_ the only reason for all the lip action.

She says very breathy, "A lemon drop martini, please."

I shake my head at her before turning to face the dance floor area once again. She hops on the stool to my left, as Bent tries to order her drink. She swings the stool side to side which makes me notice the high slit in her dress. _That_ makes me notice her legs. Creamy legs and they look smooth, too. I chuckle to myself. _She's trying way, too hard_.

"So, Eddie, how have you been feeling?" she strikes up a conversation.

"I've told you my name is not Eddie." I take another sip.

I wish I wasn't driving tonight, because if I have to be stuck with her all damn night, I may need something stronger than this beer. _Especially if she starts her shenanigans; which I'm almost sure will start in one, two, three— _

"Sorry. Sheesh. I'm just trying to confab with you."

And that, on top of _all_ the other reasons, is why I can't stand Tanya. She's twenty-five years old and still sound like one of the teens that Bent and I arrest on a daily basis.

I know I sound like a broken record, but it's the truth, _I should have stayed the hell home_. I see that Bent has moved from beside me, to further down the bar—maybe to better get Tommy's attention. _Yeah buddy, good luck with that one._

"Want to dance?" she asks me still swinging in the goddamn stool.

I'll admit that the gentle breeze from her swinging movement is making the slit in her dress move further, and further apart, which still has me looking at her legs. But only a little bit. If she'd just shut up, _maybe_ I could pretend _she's_ not the one in the dress and truly enjoy the show she's putting on.

"No, thanks." I sip on my beer and look out at the sea of people on the dance floor.

"You've been in a pissy mood for a while now," she huffs out.

I am in a mood … and pissy is too mild to describe what I've been feeling. But, I'll probably remain in _this_ mood until I can figure out how to turn my upside-down world, right-side up again. I could tell Tanya the reasons for my mood. I could tell her that Ruthie hasn't let me seen Em since I moved out about three months ago. I could tell her about my goddamn stomach that kills me and makes it hard to catch a breath if I run too hard, and that's not good in my line of work. I could tell her that I'm missing the only person I've ever missed in my entire life. But nope, she can't handle any of that, and I don't trust her with my business, anyway.

"I know you had a harsh bong with the gunshot and all but you're still living, you know?" she reassures me.

I have no freaking clue what the hell a harsh bong is—where does she pick up this shit? But she's just said the smartest thing she's ever uttered in my presence. It's true, I am alive, and I should be thankful that even after being riddled with a ricochet of bullets from that Ingram MAC 10, it did not killed me.

"Yeah, I know," I whisper.

"You know, I'm always—"

"Here's your drink Tee. Thirty goddamn minutes for one drink," Bents says hurriedly, as he pushes the drink toward Tanya.

I'm glad Bent is here because I certainly didn't want her to finish whatever she was about to say.

Bent chugs his beer. "So what are you guys talking about?" he eyes Tanya.

He knows she's sweet on me. He also knows I don't return the sentiment. At one time Ms. Warris had hopes of Tanya and I being a couple—and at one point, I think Bent did as well, but I quickly told them all about Ruthie and Em. That was one of the few instances I was glad to have Ruthie in my life.

Tanya stops the back and damn, forth swinging—_thank God!_—and takes a sip of her Lemon Drop Martini, answering Bent's question. "Uh, you know, a little this, and a little that."

"Not much man," I tell him.

By the look on his face, he wasn't buying the line she tried to feed him. He knows when I say 'not much', that she was cool and she hadn't crossed the line between where I was tempted to put a bullet through her head. That's a joke … well, maybe not. _I mean she is really annoying_.

Each of us sips on our drinks, facing the dance floor and we're caught up in our individual thoughts. I hear the guitar strings and Rod Stewart's gravelly voice as he sings, 'Sugar, Sugar.' There are moments in your life when it's like after all the fuckery you've gone through, you feel like you're finally catching a break. About a minute into '_If Ya Think I'm Sexy?_' the crowd parts slightly and I see an attractive couple—he's in some stupid, western shirt that all the yahoos around here are wearing these days, and she's in a silvery type of dress. The girl catches _and _holds my attention.

They are dancing under the mirrored ball. It's actually the biggest one in the club and is directly in the center of the dance floor. The little bit of light from the deejay booth is hitting the tiny mirrors on the ball which is reflecting crazily onto her dress. Crazy good, if that makes any sense. All I can see is her back. It's some kind of knitted number that hits mid-thigh. By seeing where the dress stops, I'm now super focused on her legs. Can you say killer legs? And the shoes, forget about it.

I move my eyes from her legs to her butt. Remember how I told you I could tell a woman's beauty by her booty? Well, this girl, right here, has a very 'cuppable' butt, that's just begging for hands to be all over it. _Man if she was mine, what I'd do to that _… but I stop that train of thought. Further up, Western Dude's, yeah so I'm calling him by his outfit, hands are around her waist, and once you see her waist, you're hit with the back of her dress. It's like fringes or chains or some-damn-thing. But the important thing about the back of this dress—the fringes exposes her back; her bare back. And shoulder blades that beg to be kissed, and a spine that calls to have a finger trail down it.

"Damn," I moan.

Out of my periphery I see that Bent has also seen the chick in the silver dress. He's drooling like I was not a mere five seconds ago. Some people have all the luck if you ask me. Western Dude spins his woman. And in that movement, as he twirls her, I see fringed-out blond hair, and flashing amber colored eyes.

_I know my eyes are playing tricks on me_.

"What the hell?" I crush my now empty beer can in my right hand.

She goes on dancing to the song, way too close for my liking, and smiling at the western looking idiot.

_No, really. _

_What the hell!_

Bent and Tanya pick up on my rising anger at the seemingly in-love couple. Tanya swings the stool in my direction and Bent puts a restraining hand on my arm. I didn't even realize that I had taken a few steps toward the offending duo. Yeah, they are both offending me—Western Dude, especially.

_Holding my Ms. Swan like that! _

_Again, what the hell_ my brain shouts.

"Hey man. What's up?" Bent hollers in my ear.

Clenching my teeth, because I don't even want to utter the words I'm about to say. "That's," I grit out, pointing my finger in their direction, "is goddamn Isabella."

I take another step toward the dance floor but Bent is right there. I don't know what he thinks he's going to do to stop me from bashing ol' Western Dude's head into the white meat.

"Cullen, man … be cool."

I ball my hands up in fists as I hear her laugh at him. How I hear her laugh over the loud voices and the blasting music is because I'm tuned to Ms. Swan. She could be all the way in fucking California and I'd still know what's up with her.

"Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

I take another step, but he's right there with me.

_Fuck it! I guess Bent will be arresting me for assault tonight._

"What are you going to do, bash his head in for dancing with her?"

_Yes, that's exactly my plan. But I don't say anything as I wait for Bent to unhand me. _

I don't think Bent understands that the more he's talks, the more upset I'm getting. I take a few more steps.

"Cullen, stop. This is no way for you to meet her for the first time since seeing her in Ohio, is it?"

And that stops me dead in my tracks.

I see her still laughing and goddamn dancing; if you can call the grinding she's doing dancing, and the crowd that had parted slowly swells back around them. They are no longer in my view. I shrug his hand off me and walk briskly back to the bar. Tanya is standing up.

"What the hell was that all about?" Tanya inquires.

"Um, Cullen thought he saw an old friend," Bent quickly tells her.

I don't add anything to Bent's statement. I whistle for Tommy's attention and he comes right over. "Lemme get a Painkiller®." I suddenly have a headache as wide as the freaking, Grand Canyon!

"Well, who is she?" I hear Tanya whispering to Bent but Tanya can't whisper for shit or maybe my senses are just on super high alert, in case I need to quickly pinpoint _my_ Ms. Swan.

"Tee, stop, drink up and shut up," Bent grumbles.

They go back and forth about what I'm not sure. All I can hear now is noise as I take big gulps of my drink. My brain has a million questions. _What the hell is she doing here? When did she get back? Who the fuck is Western Dude? And again, what the hell is she doing here?_

I turn back to face the dance floor and I see her stand on her tiptoes—I'd forgotten how short she is—telling him something. He nods his head, pecks her on the cheek and they part ways. _And now I know for sure I'm going to kill Western Dude! _He makes his way to the bar, not even bothering to make sure she's headed in the right direction without any problems. Because, trust me, she _could_ have problems from other men in that dress. She heads to her right, and once I see where she's going, I push my drink toward Bent's belly.

"I'll be back."

"Don't … "

I don't hear him because I'm fast on her heels. There are only two things in that direction: the ladies bathroom, and Cleve's office. The more I walk where she's stepped, my brain comes up with a brilliant plan, if I do say so myself. Making sure she's already at her destination—_can't have her seeing me and ruin everything, now can I?_—I walk further down the hallway toward Cleve's office. For her sake, I hope Cleve's in here. I'd hate to do this publicly, but I would, just sayin'.

I knock on Cleve's office. "Who is it?"

"Cullen."

I hear footsteps and then the door opens. I look over my shoulder to make sure she hasn't come out of the bathroom yet.

"Can I use your office for about fifteen minutes?"

"Official or unofficial business?"

I smirk at him. "What do you think?"

Cleve heads back to his desk and puts the money he was just counting away in a safe. I stay where the hell I am so I don't miss her. He walks back toward me.

"It's all yours. But if you score, do it standing please? I like my couch sex-free," he nods toward the green colored couch by his safe.

"Nobody's going to have sex in your office, man," I tell him dismissively.

"I'll leave it open. Good luck with your unofficial business," he laughs as he leaves through the open door.

"Luck? I don't need luck. I've got this!" I tell him with more certainty than I feel. His laughter increases as he spies my back-and-forth glances toward the bathroom door.

I take up my spot, on the opposite side wall, outside the bathroom door. Another five minutes go by and I'm tempted to burst through the door. _What the hell could be talking so long? You pull your underwear down, stoop, piss, wipe, pull up your underwear and wash your hands_.

I _may have_ growled, pushing my hands through my hair in frustration. Now, all the work I did to get my hair somewhat tame, is gone to hell! And all because of _her_.

I take a step toward the bathroom door and just as I put my right hand in front of it to push the door—because really, who's going to stop me?—she walks out. _Well it's about goddamn time_. I register confusion in her eyes as she sees me, right before I grab her hand and pull her toward Cleve's office.

By the time I slam the door shut, I'm pissed that she had me waiting all that damn time for her. And then I remember how she was grinding on Western Dude. And now, I'm seeing red. I know I'm about to lose it because she's _mine_.

I try to take a calming breath so that I don't go all caveman on her!

When I turn around to face her, she looks stunning. Stunning and mad but I don't linger on the last emotion, I zero-in on the former. I take two, long strides toward her. I can't help myself. I'm drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

I notice she's tapping her toes—as if she's upset with _me_—and her hands are folded under her breasts, which pushes them up further. And that's when I see she's not wearing a goddamn bra.

And I see red all the fuck over again!

"What the hell are you wearing?" I shout at her.

"What the hell do you want?" she shouts back.

I'm not sure either of us ever really hears the other because we both answer at the same time.

Me: "You!"

Her: "A damn dress!"

I want to shake her I'm so mad.

So I do the only thing that's not going to get me jail time. I grab her upper arms and I push her back toward the door and kiss her lips. She doesn't respond. She doesn't even try to open her lips for me. I pull back from her and see that her amber, colored eyes have darkened considerably. You may say they do so out of anger, but I'm going to with my gut and _tell_ youit's because she wants me just as much as I want her.

"You don't want to play games with me, Isabella," I mouth on her lips.

She opens her mouth and I get the opening I was craving.

I dive in.

I devour her.

I slant my head to the left, and instinctively she goes to the right, and my God our tongues finally meet. I_'ve died and gone to heaven_ my befuddled brain thinks. Our tongues embark upon their own lust-filled language. I reach down and pry her fisted hands loose, then hang them around my neck. She rubs my earlobe between her fingers and we both melt into each other. The kiss turns from punishing, to sweet and gentle. I feel myself hardening even more. My hands move from her hip further down to her legs, and I'm lost.

"Hold on tight spider monkey" [2].

Grabbing her by her thighs I hike her up so she's wrapped around me exactly the way I want. I use the door behind her as leverage. I see she's trying to catch her breath, as I pepper her face with more kisses.

"I've missed you. I've missed you so damn much."

She opens her mouth—I hope to return the sentiment—but I can't resist. I dive in again for those sweet lips and that deadly tongue. _I just knew I'd really, really enjoy kissing her_ I scream in my head. This time, our tongues aren't at war with each other. Now, they are composing their own symphony that could rival Beethoven's or Mozart's. I hold onto her tighter and her arms do some weird crisscross move in the back of my head.

I press firmly into her and I let out the breath I've held since the last time I saw her. It was Friday, September 16, 1977 … what a hellish of day that was! I put all the 'I messed up' and 'Let's work it out' into my next kiss.

_I want you in my life. _

_I need you in my life. _

_You're mine now, Isabella and I'm never letting go_ I chant to myself.

I can feel the silkiness of her underwear and it's driving me crazy. Slowly, I push her head to the side and nip her earlobe. "What the hell _are_ you wearing?"

It seems that kissing her and having her in my arms instantly brings me to my happy place. Red? Pfft. My brain no longer computes anything before our kisses.

Her breathing catches as she tangles her hand in my hair. "A damn dress, what the hell do you want?" she responds with a grin.

I groan, "You."

I respond with my own laughter and continue my new favorite thing to do—kissing _my_ Ms. Swan. I rub my hand on the edge of her underwear and lightly suck on the very small, exposed area right under her jaw.

"Damn girl, you taste like sin," I whisper to her.

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh," I reply, because my brain can't function enough to put together a more eloquent response.

"And" peck"I" peck "love"peck "this" peck "dress."

"So … you … um … like, then?" she asks while kissing me. My eyes, my cheek, the underside of my jaw line—everywhere and anywhere her gorgeous lips can land.

"You better stop that or you'll end up—"

Knock. Knock. Knock. The person is persistent and demanding. The knocks soon turn to bangs.

"God damn it, Cullen," yells Bent.

"I'm busy, man," I shout.

She winces because I've yelled right by her ear. I smile an apology. Her hands stay tangled in my hair and they feel so good there. _If I could just move her a little higher, I could feel the small of her_—

Bent interrupts me again just as I'm about to hoist her up. "Cullen, he's looking for her, man. Cleve came for my help in finding her 'cause he don't want no problems."

"Yeah? Well tell him to buzz off. She's okay," I yell back. "You have to stop squirming Isabella," I tell her softly. And just so she doesn't misunderstand me, I let her feel _all _of me.

I hear footsteps fading from where we are. That's one thing about Bent; he knows when I'm serious as hell about what I've set my mind to do. I attempt to move us from our standing position to the couch to maybe finally talk … and to definitely kiss some more. Fortunately for Bent, he leaves; but, unfortunately for _my_ Ms. Swan, she doesn't stop her squirming. I release my death grip from the back of her thighs and gently lower her so she's standing.

I grin at her because it's so good to see her. "I told you to stop squirming."

I try to pull her toward me but she doesn't budge. In the short time that I've let go of her, she's holding onto the doorknob like her life depends on it.

"I … " she starts off, "We shouldn't have done that."

_Whoa. _

_What the hell just happened here_?

I try to rapidly piece together how we got here in such a short timeframe. A moment ago, we were kissing.

"Isabella—"

"No," her voice kind of catches the way a woman's voice does when they're trying to cover up tears.

"No. Stay there," she tells me since I was on my way to comfort her even though I'm confused.

_We're all good now. She's back. I'm back. We're back. We're okay now. So, I don't get the tears. Maybe these are happy tear_s, I mull over to myself.

"Okay," I tell her softly.

She lowers her head. "Don't be so damn agreeable," she grumbles.

When she raises her head to look me in the eyes, I see fire—and not the good kind. This is the kind of fire that singes the hair on your head. They are burning, red-hot, bright … and right at me.

"Isabella—"

"Don't act like you care!" she yells.

"Isabella—"

_I know I'm repeating myself_, but I'm at a loss for what to say beyond her name.

She lets go of the doorknob—which I'm grateful for because her hands behind her back like that, holding unto the knob looked uncomfortable—and runs a hand through her hair. "No. _You_ don't get to speak," she sneers.

_What the hell is happening here Cullen?_ I try to backtrack the events leading up to where we are now and I can't seem to figure it out.

"You're in no position … and I'm in no position … you're in a relationship and so am I!"

_Say what now?_

I growl, but I don't think she hears me because what she says next has my heart racing like I ran a forty yard dash.

"I'm with Seth … and you're … you're with someone else," she huffs, opening the door and running out.

And all I'm left seeing is her incredible back in that dress.

I'm usually quick-footed; after all I am a cop.

I'm usually never at a loss for words; after all I am a smooth as ice, if I do say so myself.

I'm usually a quick thinker and strategist; after all … well, you get my drift.

But once again, Ms. Swan has incapacitated me. I'm too slow to stop her from leaving Cleve's office. My slow brain can't form the words to tell her I'm free and she's free too—because I'm about to kill whoever this Seth person is.

And again, like last year when I got shot, I'm just too damn slow.

Motherfu...

**1970s terms used in this chapter:**

Be cool - Relax, man!

confab - to talk/have a conversation

harsh bong - a phrase used when something bad happens

score - have sex

[1] www . classicbands otis . html (remove the spaces)

[2] Stephenie Meyer, _Twilight_, 2008

[3] www . inthe70s generated / terms . shtml (remove spaces)

**A/N:** I left you with a cliffie … do you hate me? I hope not, because as my father used to tell my mother, "my love is compenswellish for each of you." Rounds of applause, to my betas: MissJanuary and SunflowerFran3759.

As you've noticed, I've updated twice this week. The reason: there will be **no** update from May 26th to June 4th. Real life beckons—my daughter celebrates her tenth birthday on June 3rd; the long, three day weekend commemorating Memorial Day where I plan to do absolutely _nothing_, and my desire to finish writing chapters twenty-five and twenty-six.

**However**, if you request to join us on the Facebook group, www. facebook groups / 158767884293997 / (remove the spaces), I plan out putting a little something special by next Thursday night - LaPumuckl, I'll send PM you the 'something special' :).

Also, for those of you reading the story, but have disabled your PM here, I want to express my gratitude, as well as encourage you to check out the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces), for an exclusive interview with Jetpup, and Ruthie's phone call to Izzy (it's on the right side, under the most updated chapter).

Lastly, as we entertain and relax with our friends and families this weekend, let's all remember to take a moment to reflect on the true reason for the three-day weekend: the men and women who've died while serving in the U.S. Armed Forces affording us our daily freedom.

Enjoy!


	14. Chapter 13

Shout-out to the first three reviewers of Chapter 12: Hoodfabulous (if you're not reading _Dirty South Drug Wars_, you should most certainly start) and rec'd fic extraordinaires: cejsmom and RoseArcadia. A special headnod, in true Cullen style, to those that re-tweet or recommend this lil'fic to their friends and FB groups. To everyone that's reviewed and favored _The Songs of Our Lives_, welcome and my heartfelt appreciation.

Chapter 13 ~ Stupid Cupid (by Connie Francis)

Stupid cupid you're a real mean guy

I'd like to clip your wings so you can't fly

I'm in love and it's a crying shame

And I know that you're the one to blame

Hey, hey, set me free

Stupid cupid, stop picking on me

I can't do my homework and I can't think straight

I meet her every morning 'bout half past eight

I'm acting like a lovesick fool

You've even got me carrying your books to school

Hey, hey, set me free

Stupid cupid, stop picking on me

You mixed me up for good right from the very start

Hey now, go play Robin Hood with somebody else's heart

You got me jumping like a crazy clown

And I don't feature what you're putting down

Well since I kissed her loving lips of wine

The thing that bothers me is that I like it fine

Hey, hey, set me free

Stupid cupid, stop picking on me

You got me jumping like a crazy clown

And I don't feature what you're putting down

Well since I kissed his loving lips of wine

The thing that bothers me is that I like it fine

Hey, hey, set me free

Stupid cupid, stop picking on me

Hey, hey, set me free

Stupid cupid, stop picking on me

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight _and the characters of _Twilight_ belong to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Stupid Cupid_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced. I have taken some creative license with the plants mentioned in this chapter.

**Friday, July 21, 1978**

"What happened after that?" Rosie squeals excitedly.

"What do you mean, what happened after that? I booked it out of that office like I had gasoline drawers on," I hiss through the phone receiver.

Rosie cackles and I cringe hearing her laughter. That's pretty much _all_ she's done since the start of our conversation about thirty minutes ago.

"I don't personally know this Cullen, but there's something about him I like, Bird." Her loud guffaws seem to vibrate the end of the phone I'm holding.

Leaning my head on my headboard, I let a short breathe from my nose. "Yeah, you _only_ like him because you were his spy."

Before Rosie left Portsmore Academy two years ago, she'd finally told me her involvement with Cullen finding me. It seems that Cullen and her brother, Myron, went to the police academy together. They'd met up one day and Myron was telling Cullen about his sister's roommate, Bird, whom he hoped wouldn't have a bad influence on her. Cullen had figured that Myron's sister's new roommate, Bird, was me and there you damn have it.

"Don't be mad with me. I told you Myron said he was a cool cat who _really_, really wanted to find you."

"Yeah, well … _maybe_ if you hadn't wanted to win the title for Ms. Helpful of the damn Year, I wouldn't be in this mess!" I grumble.

"Oh, Bird," she tells me lowering her voice, "I think he would have found you eventually, with or without me. I think it's cute, actually."

"Bunny rabbits are cute, Rosie. This … this is … well, it's just wacked—is what _this_ is!" I snap.

"Look at it this way, now you know _how_ much he likes you, if that's any consolation."

I look up at the ceiling because I don't think Rosie realizes how absolutely bad this all is. "Just because he _like_ likes me—which we still don't know if that's true—doesn't make this right."

"You're thinking way too hard about what happened last night. I keep telling you, you have to live a little."

"How can you say that?" I screech, lowering my voice, "I played tongue war with a man that isn't my boyfriend!" Again, I'm not sure what about last night does she not understand was utterly wrong.

"Be still—"

"No, you be still."

Rising from my bed, I start pacing anywhere there's a free space for me to walk in my bedroom. Last night, in my haste to get upstairs and away from Seth, I'd just thrown everything I'd worn on the floor. My room is a mess.

"No, Rosie, you don't understand …" I tell her desperately.

"What am I missing here, Isabella Marie Swan?"

That's the thing about friends—really good friends—eventually you have to share your deepest, darkest secrets, and hope they don't judge you too harshly. Taking a calming breath, I start my story. I tell her everything that happened since she left in June of '77. I tell her about Cullen getting shot; the call from his son's mother telling me they lived together, and I tell her about Cullen coming to Cary right after my seventeenth birthday.

"Oh, Bird …" she starts to say.

"Wait, there's more." I plop down on my bed.

I tell her about walking away from him that night at Big Dan's when I _really_ didn't want to; I tell her how I was willing to be his other woman, and I tell how he followed me those eight blocks to Portsmore Academy. I tell how I wished that I had swallowed my anger and pride, and turned around.

"Why didn't you …" she tries to start again.

"There's … there's more."

I stand up and walk to my window that overlooks our backyard. I see the Nepal lilies, Envy Zinnias, Bells of Ireland and the Hellebores we've planted for the last five years. The more I look at all the green in my mother's garden, the more I can't help but to compare them to _his _eyes. And _that_—the thought of the last time I saw the color of his eyes—pushes me over the edge. And I finish my drama-filled tale to Rosie by telling her about the last day at Portsmore Academy when I cried for more than thirteen hours straight.

"Damn," Rosie whispers.

"Yeah, damn is right," I whisper back.

"I had, um … no idea. Can you … can you gimme a sec?"

"I know."

I hear some shuffling in the back and I hear her counting, which only means one thing—she's trying not to cry.

"Well, why the hell didn't you call me then?" she asks me angrily when she comes back on the phone.

"I couldn't. This all happened at Portsmore Academy. No phone privileges remember?" I tell her quietly.

"Then why didn't you goddamn write me!" she shouts.

"I just … I couldn't, Rosie."

"But, I'm your friend. You know all about Royce and me."

"I just couldn't," my voice is barely above a whisper now.

I know what's about to come next, so I wisely hold the receiver from my ear.

"Why the hell not!" she yells.

"Because," I sob. "Because, I still god damn love him," I admit dejectedly.

I'm so glad my parents are out shopping at the grocery store. It wouldn't be cool for them to hear any of this conversation and especially not my last declaration.

"Damn," she breathes out.

"Yeah, damn."

We're both silent for a while, listening to the other's breathing.

"Izzy? Izzy, come help us with the bags," my mother yells out.

"Just one sec," I shout. "Rosie, I gotta go."

"All right."

"We'll confab later on, okay?"

"No problem, mellow," she tells me in an unsure way.

"It's casual, man. We'll talk later," I assure her, hanging up the phone not giving her a chance to respond.

**Thursday, July 27, 1978**

Honk. Honk.

"Goddamn drive your car, grandma," I yell in frustration.

I look at the dashboard and I have about five minutes to get to where I'm going or there's going to be hell to pay. I tap my thumbs on the steering wheel in frustration at the slow moving driver in front of me. She really should switch to the right lane because I need to book it.

Honk. Honk. Honk. She puts on her right indicator light and moves the hell over.

"Finally," I grumble, throwing my right hand up in the air.

I press harder on the gas pedal in hopes that action will make my speed-challenged vehicle—also known as the world's slowest car—go faster. I love my baby to death, but when you have a car with an engine [1] that was less than one-third as fast as all of the others running around here, I'd be lucky if I got to the bus depot by the time Rosie's bus arrives.

Right after I came back from Portsmore Academy, my mother busted her brain trying to find a way to cheer me up after that infamous thirteen-hour long cry. She talked my father into getting me a car, and the one they decided on was slow and old, but it is all mine. My 1971 Volkswagen Bus will probably never make to New York City and back, but right now, in Upper Salem, it does just fine, _thank you very much_.

"Boys and girls, you're listening to Throwback Thursdays where we play all the hits of yesteryear. Got a song you want to hear? Call us at 753-WHOT. Now here's one from back in 1958, by the one and only, Connie Francis. I hope you don't have a Stupid Cupid in your life," the radio host says.

I hear some fast plucking of guitar strings and by the time the second verse comes on, I'm hooked. I bop my head in time with the beat and up-tempo rhythm as she's belts out, '_I'm acting like a lovesick fool. You've even got me carrying your books to school. Hey hey, set me free. Stupid Cupid, stop picking on me._' By the end of the song, I totally agree with the singer about the reality of stupid cupids. _It must have surely been a stupid cupid decided to point their arrow at me! _Damn all stupid cupids to hell who can't understand that their sole purpose—is uniting true lovers—correctly. I laugh out loud at that thought before parking my car in front of the bus depot.

Getting out, I have no problem spotting Rosie. She towers over the other passengers, plus, she's from head-to-toe in white. _The boat neck dress with a split going up to her mid-thigh looks dang good on her_ I muse, waving and walking her way.

"Why do you always bring so much stuff with you?" I ask.

She has three suitcases for her two-week stay at my house. _Only Rosie_, I laugh shaking my head.

"What's shakin' good lookin'?" Rosie calls out.

"Nothing much, I'm here to pick up this chump I know from Philly. She's told me that she would have on a white dress. You haven't seen any chumps around here, have you?" I tease her.

"Kiss mah grits [2]," Rosie says, as we high-five each other.

It's funny that Rosie is using the most famous line from the TV show, _Alice_, because that's how we bonded when I first went to Portsmore Academy.

"Come on, let's go."

We both struggle with her bags and finally drag them to my car. _Now I really wish I'd let Harim come like Mom had suggested. _Rosie stands back while I open the car door.

"Ah, Bird … what is this monstrosity you're driving?"

I run my hand over the silver crested VW. "She doesn't mean it, Lucy," I lovingly whisper to my car.

"Why is she called Lucy?"

"That should be obvious," I answer, hoisting a suitcase into the back of the car, and arranging the others inside as well. "She's a redhead like her namesake, Lucille Ball."

She hops in the front with the last of her bags. I see her lean forward as I make my way around to the driver's side. Entering, I see her fiddling with the dial that controls the radio stations.

Turning to her I ask, "Didn't like the station?"

"It was playing some really old songs." She settles on something she likes. "So what are we getting into this week?"

I've had some time to figure our entertainment options, so I rattle them off quickly.

"There's some clubs we can go to; I want us to go down to LaPush Beach to work on our tans since we're both looking a little like Casper the Friendly Ghost; we can walk through Lesley Trail; there's another trail about ten miles from that one where we can fish; and then, maybe go to New York," I mention to Rosie.

"For someplace that took me damn near over five hours to get to, you guys sure have a lot of things to do," she grumbles.

I grin at Rosie because I already know which activities she has no interest in. I make a left on Putan Street and head toward Farrell's Ice Cream Parlour [3].

"I told you Upper Salem is no hickville town like Cary. There's always something going on because we get a lot of overflow tourists either going or leaving the Catskills." I pull into a parking space and turn off the car.

"Well count me out of the walking and the fishing," she shudders. "I just want to park my ass someplace since this is my last getaway before I head off to college."

At the mention of her going to university, my disposition changes, and I'm instantly sadden. It's not like I'm envious of Rosie for being able to fulfill her dream. I'm just mad that I'm not able to go as I'd hoped. Damn Charles … a-freaking-gain and his irresponsible ass. It seems that only one Swan can go to college at a time and right now that was Harim.

"Aw, Bird, don't be sad. You'll get there too," she reassures me.

"I know," I sigh. "I know I will, but he gets me so mad sometimes. My dad has this big, cushy title that doesn't mean a damn thing since he can't support his family," I fume to her.

"Come on; let's go eat some ice cream. Like I've told you, there are three things that help chase the blues away: shopping, _mind-blowing_ sex, and ice cream—and lots of them in any combination," she announces with a smile.

"Leave it to you to come up with a list that cost money, could make you pregnant, and/or fat," I giggle.

"I'm glad I'm here," she declares.

"Me too, Rosie. Me too."

It wasn't until a few minutes ago when I picked her up from the bus depot that I realized how much I've missed her. In the two years since we'd last seen each other, so much has happened to us. The loss of her father last year, Cullen being shot, and her high-school sweetheart, Royce, being declared a prisoner of war in Vietnam. We've had a crappy last couple of years but _maybe_ a Farrell's Gold-digger flavored ice-cream [4] for Rosie, and a Caramel Delight [4] for me, will do the trick in lifting our spirits.

**Saturday, August 5, 1978**

"So, what are we getting into tonight?"

Entertaining Rosie has been like having a full-time job.

So far, we've been to LaPush Beach twice; we've seen _Grease _[5] three times because who can resist a dancing and singing John Travolta; we've gone to Warren Beatty's latest movie, _Heaven Can Wait_ [6]; two days ago, I took her down to the Catskills, and yesterday, we took the Conrail [7] into New York City.

I get tired _simply _thinking about all we've done even though I'm glad that she's here.

On the days where we chose not to do anything, we gave each other facials, manicures, and pedicures. And, we've done a lot of talking. A lot of talking: she—about missing Royce and whether he'll ever be released; and me—about Seth. She tried to get me to talk about _him _but I've refused, and so far, I'm winning in that tug of war between us. I'm going to be sad to see her leave next Thursday on the tenth, but such is life—all good things must come to an end.

I'm jarred to the present when I see Rosie wave her hands in front of my face. _Oh, right, she's waiting for me to say something_.

"I'm not sure. We could take in another movie or we could go dancing," I groan out the last option, hoping she'll pick the first.

But, I know my Rosie, so what she tells me does not surprise me.

"Let's do both."

She has today's _The Times_, Upper Salem County's newspaper, in her hands. "We can watch _Animal House _[7] at 10pm and then head to a club." She nods her head as if settling the matter about tonight's plans.

"I'm hip."

"So, Bird …"

"So, Rosie …"

"Wanna talk about Cul—"

"Nope, still don't want to talk about _him_."

"You know you'll eventually have to choose between your two Casanovas," she lets out a laugh.

"There's no choice to be made Rosie. I'm with Seth. End of the matter. Period!" I tell her for the billionth time.

"We'll see … we'll see. Come on let's get dressed." She puts down the newspaper, walking to her suitcase. "So what do you want to wear?"

"I—"

Talking over me, she squeals in excitement, "I have the perfect dress for you. I can't wait to see you in it."

_There goes my comfortable outfit I wanted to wear tonight_ I think to myself.

"The dress is comfortable, Bird. Geesh! And by the way, you've got to take something for that talking out loud crap," she laughs.

Hooking my arm through hers, I walk us over to her open suitcases. "Maybe this perfect dress is the prescription I need then."

**1970s terms used in this chapter:**

be still - calm down/chill out

book - to leave or move in a hurry

Casanova - boys who are unusually smooth with girls

chump - a fool/a loser

confab - to talk/have a conversation

cool cat - a good friend

dang - mighty fine

I'm hip - I agree with you

it's casual - means things are okay

my mellow - my friend

wacked - screwed, weird, something [that's] wrong

What's shakin'? - casual greeting/equivalent to What's happening? or How's it going?

[1] auto . howstuffworks volkswagen - bus5 . htm (remove the spaces)

[2] _Alice_ TV show said by character Flo

[3] Farrell's is a real place that had about 120 franchises in 1975 throughout the nation. en . wikipedia wiki / Farrell's_Ice_Cream_Parlour (remove the spaces)

[4] www . farrellsusa menus / 50yrMenuFeb2013 . pdf (remove the spaces)

[5] _Grease_ was released on June 16, 1978

[6] _Heaven Can Wait_ was released on June 28, 1978

[7] Before NYC's Metropolitan Transportation Authority came about, there was Conrail. en . wikipedia wiki / Conrail (remove the spaces)

[8] _National Lampoon's Animal House_ was released on July 28, 1978

**A/N:** I thank each of you for understanding about not posting for a week, and I hope each had a wonderful Memorial Day weekend. A special shout-out to LaPumuckl who is back right where she's needed most.

Fics that I'd for you to give some tender, loving care toward: cravingMOREplz's Criminella, _Where I Belong_ (I've been told it is completely written with a beta seal of approval, and updates should be timely) and lilmissweetsin2380's first Mobward, _Second to No One_. If you read, tell 'em who sent ya.

The fantastic Ms. SunFlowerFran3759 waved her magic wand, turning my toad of a story into the loveliness you see before your eyes.

Check out the blog .com for chapter title songs, looks and much more. Or, join us over at groups / 158767884293997 /


	15. Chapter 14

Shout-out to the first three reviewers of Chapter 13: shaz308, debslmac, and cullenmeadow. To everyone that's reviewed and favored _The Songs of Our Lives_, welcome and my heartfelt appreciation.

Chapter 14 ~ Try Me (by James Brown)

Try me

Try me

Darlin' tell me

I need you

Try me

Try me

And your love will always be true

Oh I need you (I need you)

Hold me

Hold me

I want you right here by my side

Hold me

Hold me

And your love we won't hide

Oh I need you (I need you)

Oh I need you (I need you)

Oh oh walk with me (walk with me)

Talk with me (talk with me)

I want you to stop my heart from crying

Walk with me (walk with me)

Talk with me (talk with me)

And your love stops my heart from dying

Oh I need you (I need you hoo hoo)

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight _and the characters of _Twilight_ belong to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Try Me_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Wednesday, August 9, 1978**

Ring. Ring. _Come on_. _Come on_._ Pick up_. Ring. Ring.

"This is ridiculous!" I yell, hanging up the phone.

_Every single week, it's something with her_. _All I want is to take Em clothes shopping and then grab a bite to eat._

"God damn it, Ruthie!"

"Woman trouble?" Bent snickers

I don't even bother responding to him because if I do, I'll likely catch a charge for involuntary manslaughter. _Idiot!_ I look up at the clock and it's 4 pm.

"I'm getting out of here. Want to head out?"

"Can't … I'm taking Tanya and Momma shopping."

"All right, we'll catch up later, maybe at Lounge 57, yeah?"

"That's cool. Catch you on the flipside," Bent responds.

I shake my head at him because he's now caught whatever bug Tanya has—they both talk like they're in their teens rather than the twenty-somethings they are.

_Friggin' DARs, mileage log sheets, evidentiary reports, fingerprint cards, _my brain shouts.

"I hate Write-up Wednesdays," I grumble to myself, heading down the front steps.

It was an unwritten rule in this precinct that two Wednesdays out of the month are spent filling out all the paperwork required for our job. In the winter months, no one minds staying indoors but summers? Everyone, including myself, try to pawn off their paperwork duties either to unsuspecting partners or to Agnes, our department's secretary. Un-freaking-fortunately for me, Bent caught onto my game. So, now this day of the week is filled with the most tedious, mind-numbing, and hated chore here at #13 Mobayton Police Department.

Walking toward the parking lot, it was easy to locate my newest baby, The Swan. It's a silver 1978 Chevrolet Camaro Z28. But hold on ladies and gentlemen, the interior … oh, the interior has the softest, butterscotch leather I've felt in the longest time. The color of the leather reminds me of Ms. Swan's ever-expressive eyes, which is why my baby is named after my girl. _Well she's not mine right at the momen__t,__ but she will be, once she comes around_. When I saw the car at Bob's Chevrolet Car Dealer, back in July, I knew I had to have it. I never second-guessed my decision of trading in my 1971 Pontiac GTO for this fine specimen.

"Damn you look good," I mutter, both in reference to me, because … well, I do, and to The Swan.

My stomach chooses to make its presence known and reminds me the many hours I'd been recently holed up at the station filling out paperwork as soon as I slide into the driver's seat. _Now what to eat?_ Driving out of the parking lot, I make a left onto Main Street and decide I'm in the mood for some good Italian food.

In Upper Salem, everyone knows there's only one option for superb Italian—El Cigno Grazioso. With that in mind, I drive for another ten minutes in their direction. _I sure hope they aren't crowded_ I muse, but I know that's wishful thinking. No matter the hour, day or season, this restaurant is always crowded.

I groan out loud as I park my car in the restaurant's parking lot and see that it's almost filled to capacity. Walking toward the front of the restaurant, I notice that for a place with food that stimulates your taste buds to the highest level, it looks like just a run of the mill kind of place. Not quite like a hole-in-the-wall or dive, but if you've never been to El Cigno Grazioso, you'd skip it in favor of one of Upper Salem's better looking restaurant. It looks that regular and nondescript. But, the food was _not_ regular or nondescript.

What this place lacks in decor, it easily makes up by serving authentic, Italian fare. Not Italian-American dishes, but Italian meals that transport you to Sicily or Rome or Naples!

As I approach the hostess, I make sure that my badge is displayed prominently and I have on my best get-me-anything-I-ask-for smile. "A table please?" I request.

"Do you have a reservation, sir?"

_Damn, now why must she be on duty today? Can't a man catch a friggin' break?_

"Ah … no, not today but I eat here—"

The hostess is Angie, I think. I already know what she's about to say to me without being a mind reader.

She clucks her tongue a little. "I'm sorry, sir," she drags out the title. "If you do not have reservation, it's the company's policy not to seat you." She sneers, and then points to the written policy over her shoulder.

_Se__e,__ this is why I don't shit where I eat. Bad analogy, but so damn tru__e,_I mentally berate myself. Sleep with a chick once and she expects a ring or something when we both knew what the hell that night was about.

Leaning my upper body against the podium, I try again. "Come on, surely you can squeeze me in," I waggle my eyebrows, hoping for the best. "You've done it before," I remind her.

And, in all truthfulness, she has. She's squeezed me into a booth at El Cigno Grazioso before, and she's squeezed me inside of her before. I know that sound's smug, crass, and ungentlemanly, but whatever!

"There'll be no more of that … company policy. No reservation—"

"Yeah, yeah," I cut her off. "No reservation, blah, blah, blah."

Pushing myself off the podium, I turn to leave because I am not in the mood to fight with Angie, or whatever the hell her name is, about eating here. _I'll just grab some McDonalds® and call it an afternoon_.

"Is that Cullen leaving without saying hello?"

Turning back around, I come face to face with Aro Cicero, El Cigno Grazioso's owner. "You know I'd never come here and not say hello to you, Mr. Cicero."

"I told you it's Aro, call me Aro," he grasps my hand in a friendly handshake. "Is Alexis seating you now?"

_Alexis! That's her damn name. Now why did I think it was Angie?_

"You know how busy you guys are Aro. Company's policy dictates, no reservation—" I admit with a little chuckle.

He pulls me further into his embrace. "That's not for you," he whispers in my ear. I give a slight nod of my head in understanding.

"Alexis, table number seven," hecommands.

"But, Mr. Cicero that's for—"

"I know who the table is for. Now add Cullen here to those that can sit at booth seven. Anytime."

She lets out a sharp hiss making her sound like a komodo dragon, and I couldn't control the snigger that escape from my lips about the whole situation. I don't give Alexis a second thought as he walks me to my table.

"I really appreciate what you did for A.J. last year, Cullen."

"It wasn't a big—"

"It was a big deal to me and his mom, and we appreciate it. Now, not another word and enjoy your meal. It's on the house," he tells me slapping me gently on the back. And with that he was gone just like he came.

_I don't know why he insists on trying to repay me. I was only doing my job. I guess I should tell you since you probably think I'm a douche for what I said to Angie__ ...__ er, Alexis. Last year, A.J. was trying out thug life and was peddling LSD to his classmates at All Saints High. An ironic name for __a__ place filled with a bunch of never-work-a-day-in-their-life acidheads. Anyway, Bent and I responded to the call from the school. I recognized A.J__.,__ and when I was told that he was the ringleader, I knew what I had to do. A.J. is not hood! He grew up in Ironshoreland, one of Upper Salem's most exclusive neighborhoods, for God's sake. So I knew exactly what to do with his pansy the-world-owes-m__e__ ass. I called up Aro and told him my plan and the rest is history. He stayed in the cooler for two days. When his parents came to pick him up, he was the most docile young man. And, I'm proud to say that he's no longer attempting thug life._

Snickering, I mentally think thug life, my ass!

Looking down at the restaurant's extensive menu, I peruse its list of mouth-watering dishes; most of them I can't even pronounce, as I contemplate what I'd like to eat tonight.

I smell _her_ before I see _her_.

The aromatic, natural smell of my Ms. Swan mixed with whatever strawberry-scented products she seems to favor, hit my nose first, then my lips. Tasting the new flavor on my tongue, I whip my head up just in time to see her, and a tall, attractive blond approach Alexis at the podium as I had done, not ten minutes earlier.

_And just like that, I have a plan of how to win back my Ms. Swan_.

Walking toward the trio, I use my most commanding voice. "They will be joining me."

"What the …"

"Excuse me …"

"Why thank you, kind sir."

The first is from Ms. Swan, the second is from Alexis, and the last is from the blond. And since the blond is the most agreeable, I angle my body toward her asking, "And you are?"

She extends a hand. "Rosaline Suhavey. And you must be our dinner guest for tonight. Cullen, right?"

_So, she's spoken of me then. Score!_

"It's a pleasure, Miss Suhavey."

I walk toward them so they have no choice but to hook their arms through mine as I walk them back to my newly, acquired table. I see Ms. Swan's hand on the back of her chair as if to seat herself.

"Tsk Tsk. Such a shame not to let a man do his job," I tease, pulling out her chair.

Rosaline's shoulders move up and down with her attempt to cover her chuckles. Either she's confident that I'll seat her or she's just that bold to wait for the man in situations like these. I seat her next. Ms. Swan is to my right and Rosaline is in front of us. And to be clear, Rosaline is grinning like she'd just Bogarted a joint, while Ms. Swan is sitting like she's a tightly wound hamstring.

"I'll give you something to grin about you la la," she mutters under her breathe. _Still have __my pin drop-in-a-dense forest-kind of hearing._

"What is that, Ms. Swan?" I question, picking up my menu again.

"I think she said she feels like having linguine tonight," answers Rosaline with a head shake and some more chuckling.

_I think I like this girl_.

"Welcome to El Cigno Grazioso. My name is Jackie and I'll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with a drink?"

"I'll have a pink lady," Rosaline instantly orders.

"A Lonesome Charlie for me." _Hmm, so she__ wants low-alcohol today, interesting._

"And for the gentleman?" Jackie wonders with her pad pointed in my direction.

"Let me get a cold Heineken®."

"I'll put those orders in and give you about ten minutes to decide on your meals, yes?" Jackie inquires as she looks at me.

"That will be fine," I answer.

Jackie walks away from us and leaves me with a steaming Ms. Swan and a still-snickering Rosaline. Weighing my options, I decide to strike up a conversation with the latter. Right now, my girl is looking like she'd rather have my head on a platter as her dinner choice, instead of one of the restaurant's delicious meals.

I lean my upper body toward the table and rest my chin against my tented hands. "So … you're Myron's baby sister?"

She mimics my move and boldly states, "So … you're the infamous Cullen? Your name precedes you."

To my right, I hear Ms. Swan's low groan. "Kill me now," she whispers.

Rosaline and I stare intently at each other—each testing what the other is made of. In this pivotal stare-off, the future relationship I'd have with my girl's friend will be decided. From this point onward, we were either going to be friends for however long I would be in Ms. Swan's life or she would be the bane of my existence.

When I messed up, she'd either encourage Ms. Swan to give me a second chance or encourage her to move onto greener pastures. That's what this stare-off is about, trying to see what we would be to each other since it doesn't seem either of us is leaving Ms. Swan's life anytime soon. I stare longer and deeper into Rosaline's violet-colored eyes. I'm not sure what her conclusion about me is, but I decide she has nerves of steel and King Kong-size cojones. And with those two thoughts swirling around my head, I crack a smile at her. She's a friend.

"Infamous? Greek gods and nefarious pirates are infamous. I'm just a mere mortal," I respond, smirking.

"You know how news travels? One never knows the real point of origin. All one knows is that the news reaches them," she shrugs her shoulder by way of an answer but a grin plays on her lips.

_She may be youn__g; __but this girl is smart, and hilarious__!_

Leaning back in my chair, I inquire, "And how have you been, Ms. Swan? The last time we saw each other was all too brief, don't you agree?"

Jackie places our respective drink orders in front of us. Ms. Swan takes a tentative sip of hers while Rosaline and I revel in our drink choices.

My girl puts her wine down on the table and angles her head in my direction. "The last we saw each other you were still playing games, and I've decided tricks are for kids [1]. And I'm not a kid," she declares.

_Can you see why she fascinates __and__ infuriates the hell out of me? And, here I am trying to be nice!_

Rosaline hides her chuckle behind a cough, wisely, I might add. And I try my best not to spew the beer all over my new-found friend.

I swallow the little bit of Heineken® that was stuck between my teeth and esophagus, and wipe my mouth with the napkin from the table.

"You're absolutely right, Ms. Swan," I say, pausing and looking around the table, "Because I don't see _any_ kids sitting at _this_ table."

"I'm not too sure about …" she trails off in a mutter.

Unknowingly, Jackie saves her from a tongue lashing. "Have you decided what you'll be eating?"

"I know," Rosaline pipes up from behind the menu which is now obstructing her view of us.

"Yeah," Ms. Swan and I say simultaneously, irritation evident in our voices.

_What the hell she has to be irritated about is beyond me. After all, she's the one who insulted me_. _How dare she insinuate that I was a child at Cafe Jenny? I wasn't the one that left, now was I?_

I shake my head in hopes of clearing whatever fog-induced state Ms. Swan and her ridiculous action from that night has put in me again.

"Have you taken the ladies' orders?" I inquire, trying to buy more time because I have no clue what I want.

"Yes."

Her response forces me to quickly scan down the menu and bingo, I see what I want.

"I'll take the mushroom ravioli."

"Excellent choice; that's two mushroom ravioli and one pasta alla gricia. Would anyone care for water or refreshing of your drink?"

_I wonder who else ordered the mushroom ravioli_.

Rosaline's soft chuckle indicates that Ms. Swan and I have similar culinary tastes. _Interesting. _

Hoping to decrease her ire, I ask Ms. Swan, "Now that you're finished with Portsmore Academy, what are you future academic plans?"

The corners of her mouth turn slightly down into a frown, and she shakes her head at her friend so quickly that I would have missed the motion if I was not acutely aware of all things Ms. Swan_. Now what is that about?_

"Well," answers Rosaline, pulling my attention toward her, "I'm going to Pennsylvania Teacher's College."

"That's great, but—"

"Rosie is going to become an elementary teacher," my girl says proudly. _So, she's not jealous of Rosaline. So, what's up with the frown, then?_

"Yes, I start in September. That's why I decided to come see Bird before classes begins, you know?"

Clearly, Ms. Swan doesn't want to talk about_ her _plans. She remains silent as Rosaline and I converse.

"What made you decide to become a teacher?"

"My mother is a teacher, her mother was a teacher. It's the Suhavey female's lot in life to help educate the world," she announces with a broad grin.

"You seem very proud of your family's legacy. That's wonderful."

I see my girl's ears perk up a little. She probably heard my sarcastic tone when I mentioned family legacy.

"What does your family do?"

"My father is a cop, like me. Actually, he's a Sergeant now."

"Wow. Congratulations, Cullen," Ms. Swan whispers, entering the conversation.

_I know all of my pearly whites are showin__g,__ because she remembers my father and if she remembers him, surely she must __..._

"Congratulations about your pops," Rosaline agrees. "What about your mother? What does she—"

Ms. Swan inconspicuously shakes her head at her friend. I guess she remembers from our writing days when I'd indicated that my relationship with my 'mother' is pretty much non-existent. So like I just said, er, thought ... whatever, if she remembers my father and now my mother, surely she ...

"Um … so where do you see—"

Jackie interrupts Rosaline with our dinner.

_I could see her brain scrambling for a question since Ms. Swan's negative headshake took the mommy question off the table. _

"Do you ladies have plans for tonight?"

"Nah, Bird and I are going to mellow out tonight."

"Rosie is leaving me tomorrow afternoon."

"If it's her last night in Upper Salem, you have to let her go out with a bang, any good friend would do that," I tease.

_Please take the bait. Please!_ I silently beg.

"And what fun is there to be had around here? We went to Cafe Jenny on a Saturday night for goodness sake, and it was filled to the brim with cheese weasels and their airheads," Rosaline huffs out.

"Well you know," I start, talking to Rosaline, "It's not so much the location, but more so the company one keeps at said location," I finish, staring directly at Ms. Swan.

I lick my lips … just a little. _I could eat her up, right now. Don't judge me._

Rosaline mutters, "Damn, now I see what she means."

_And my inner caveman, the one from yesteryear, grunts and shouts, "Damn right. 'Cause I'm the man _... _I'm her man!"_

"Rosie …"

"Bird ..."

_Apparently they're having some silent, woman-type communication that only they speak._

"Rosie …" she groans.

"Bird ..." Rosaline says forcibly.

"Ladies, a decision doesn't have to be made now. Let's finish our meal and we'll see where the night leads."

And we do just as I suggest. We ate; we talked ...well, Rosaline and I chat like old friends and we laugh, even Ms. Swan. As our dishes are being cleared away, I broach the subject from a different angle.

"Rosie …" Over dinner, she gave me permission to use her nickname. "It would be my honor, if you'd allow me, to show you the nightlife of Upper Salem. This county is no Philadelphia, but we know how to get down, too."

"You know what? I will take you up on that offer. Time and place, Cullen?"

I look at my watch and realize it's 7:30pm. My God, I've spent over three hours in Ms. Swan's presence and survived.

"How about Lounge 57 about 11ish?"

"Bird, you know where this Lounge 57 is?"

_I have to find a way to drive them_. "I would prefer driving you both there because it's pretty hard to get to."

They do that weird, silent communication thing again; and, again, I'm totally clueless. All I see is an eye roll and forceful head shake, and then it seems their 'conversation' ends. I'm then told that they will meet me at the CVS on the corner of New Street in Sunvalley. _I guess she still wants the option of driving __herself__ and Rosie home._

**A few hours later...**

"Does this," I ask, spreading my arms outward, "Meet your metropolitan requirements of a nightlife, Rosie?"

They both look around Lounge 57 for what seems like the tenth time in the last hour that we've been here. I must admit this place was no Club Jenny or any other club I know of in Upper Salem for that matter. It is overflowing with grouped, white leather couches and dim lighting. I prefer coming here after a long day because you can sit back, relax, and enjoy the company you're with. The music is low and the service is above reproach. It's almost like you were at a New York City or a Miami venue. Ms. Swan shakes her head as she sips on her Roy Rogers and Rosie takes a taste of her Harvey Wallbanger.

"Excuse me, I have to go to the restroom," Ms. Swan tells no one in particular.

"Want me to come with?" Rosie inquires.

"I should be good," she admits, turning in my direction, "The bathroom is ..."

"Straight ahead, first right, and down the steps," I instruct.

"Thanks. I'll be right back ..." she trails, standing up.

"What's up with your friend?" I ask the instant she's out of hearing range.

_She's barely said two words since I picked them up from CVS_.

"You know what's up with her."

"No, I really don't. So, I messed up … she's acting like I committed murder or something."

"To her, murder, tax evasion, cheating ... all the same," she says with a twirl of her forefinger.

"I was going to tell her ..." I mutter, lying.

"But you didn't, did you?"

"I like her …"

"I know that."

"I'm trying to set a wrong right …"

"Are you really? How's that going for you?" She smirks at me.

I take a long swallow of my beer. "Not too good."

"_What_ exactly do you think you've done here, Cullen?" she asks with genuine interest.

"I messed up—"

She shakes her head. "We all know you messed up. The million dollar question is _how_ do you think you're making that wrong right?" She tsks as if speaking to a toddler.

"What do you mean? I drove for three, goddamn hours to Cary when I should have been home, recuperating from my gunshot wound—"

"So what … you want a gold medal?" she barks out with a hearty laugh.

"I wrote letters!"

"Big whoop!" She twirls her forefinger in the air, making a circle, before she takes another sip of her drink.

"What the hell? I'm trying over here. She won't give me a break."

She picks up her drink, swallowing a small amount before putting it back in front of her. "Why?"

"Why, what, Rosie?" I huff out a breath.

_This conversation is going nowhere_.

"Why?"

"I don't know what you're asking me? What do you want me to answer?"

She shakes her head and her tone sounds real sad. She repeats her one word question.

And I know what she wants ... no, needs to know. Why did I lie to her friend? Why did I pursue her knowing I was with someone else? Why did I hurt her friend?

Fiddling with the beer bottle in front of me, I decide to be honest. "The day back in '76 … when I met her, she blew my mind," I drag a breath into my lungs, because suddenly my admission was sucking up all the available oxygen. "When I found her through your brother, she made me want to be the man that I wrote about. She made me want to be free to pursue her, even if I wasn't."

_Yeah, it's convoluted as __hell,__ but I hope Rosie knows what I mean_.

"Are you going to hurt her again?"

"I would be lying if I said no, but I give you my word that if I do, it _will_ _not_ be intentional. And, I'll make it my personal mission to make it up to her ... always."

"Hmm …"

_Now what the hell does hmm mean? Does hmm mean interesting? Or does it mean hmm mean you're so full of shit and I'm going to make sure my friend knows it?_

"What's that supposed to mean?" I inquire indignantly.

"Huh?" she laughs again. "I thought you were a smart man."

I choose not to say anything more to her because she's frustrating the hell out of me. I'm here to relax from a long day at work, I have no time or patience for riddles and guessing games. Just then Ms. Swan comes back to the table.

Standing up, I tell her, "Let's dance." I don't wait for a response, and point for her to lead the way.

As I'm walking past the table, Rosie grabs my forearm. "You don't need my help. Keep doing what you're doing. And that hmm? Well, it means that this thing between you and my friend is going to blow both your minds." She lets go of my arm and I'm less frustrated, but no less confused.

I follow closely behind my girl like a child following its parent. The gentle sway of her hips and the vibrant red of her dress further cloud my mind. _Damn, she's wearing the hell out of the dress_. She finds a spot for us on the dance floor and I pull her close into my embrace, but she tries to keep some distance between us.

"None of that, we're just dancing."

"No funny business."

I pull her closer to me. "I promise. Just relax. This is_ us._"

And because there is a God who knows about the Ms. Swan-itis I've had since June 17, 1976, He lets the deejay put on the perfect song for us. As James Brown soulfully sings _Try Me_, I gently rock us side to side and repeat each verse back to her.

With each line I repeat, I beg her to give me another shot. I beg her to give us the shot I robbed us of with my lies.

Try me

Try me, Isabella

Darlin' tell me

I need you

Try me

Try me (again), Isabella

And your love will always be true

Oh I need you (I need you, Isabella)

Hold me

Hold me, Isabella

I want you right here by my side

Hold me

Hold me

And your love we won't hide

Oh I need you (I need you)

Oh I need you (I need you)

Oh oh walk with me (walk with me)

Talk with me (talk with me)

I want you to stop my heart from crying, Isabella

Walk with me (walk with me)

Talk with me (talk with me)

And your love stops my heart from dying

Oh I need you, I. Need. You, Izzy

**1970s terms [2] used in this chapter:**

airhead - stupid person, usually a blond-haired woman

Bogart - greedy, to hog something, meant to hold on to a joint too long without passing it

catch you on the flipside - see you later

cheese weasel - annoying/obnoxious idiot

cooler - prison or jail

hood - bad boy

la la - stupid idiot

mellow out - chill out, relax, calm down

**1970s drug slang terms [3] used in this chapter:**

acidhead - frequent user of LSD

**Translations:**

El Cigno Grazioso - The Graceful Swan

[1] Word play on General Mills' Trix slogan

[2] www . inthe70s generated / terms . shtml

[3] www . nostalgiaholic wp / 536 / 1970s-drug-culture-lingo/

**A/N:** Check out the blog luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for chapter title songs, looks and much more. Don't forget to join our Facebook group: www . facebook groups / 158767884293997 / (remove spaces). Thank you, Sunflower Fran3759, for her tireless beta'ing work on this lil' fic.

June 11, 2013 - my apologies to the first couple of readers/reviewers of this chapter. Something funky happened where words were missing and others were smashed together. NOT the fault of my beta. I've fixed them. If anyone sees anymore, please leave it in your review or PM directly. Thank you.


	16. Chapter 15

Shout-out to the first three reviewers of Chapter 14: shaz308, 3c cullen, and debslmac. To everyone that's reviewed, favored and/or followed _The Songs of Our Lives_, welcome and my heartfelt appreciation.

Chapter 15 ~ Torn Between Two Lovers (by Mary MacGregor)

There are times when a woman has to say what's on her mind

Even though she knows how much it's gonna hurt

Before I say another word let me tell you, I love you

Let me hold you close and say these words as gently as I can

There's been another man that I've needed and I've loved

But that doesn't mean I love you less

And he knows he can't possess me and he knows he never will

There's just this empty place inside of me that only he can fill

[Chorus:]

Torn between two lovers, feelin' like a fool

Lovin' both of you is breakin' all the rules

Torn between two lovers, feelin' like a fool

Lovin' you both is breakin' all the rules

You mustn't think you've failed me

Just because there's someone else

You were the first real love I ever had

And all the things I ever said

I swear they still are true

For no one else can have the part of me I gave to you

[Chorus]

I couldn't really blame you if you turned and walked away

But with everything I feel inside, I'm asking you to stay

[Chorus]

Torn between two lovers

[Fade]

Feelin' like a fool

Lovin' both of you is breakin' all the rules

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Torn Between Two Lovers_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Friday, December 15, 1978**

_Try me again, Isabella_.

Ever since that idiot whispered it into my ears that's _all_ I could think of. Whether I was doing mundane things like brushing my teeth or tasks that demanded my undivided attention like talking to my boyfriend, _all _I that I could freaking think about is: '_Try me again, Isabella.' _

Grr.

He has been the bane of my existence for the last four months.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Like now, when I know I should concentrate more on answering El Cigno Grazioso's phone than being paralyzed by Cullen and what hesaid.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Snap out of it, Izzy. You need thisjob, remember?" I berate myself.

Affecting my most professional voice, I answer, "You've reached El Cigno Grazioso, Upper Salem's finest Italian restaurant. How may I help you?"

I listen intently to the person on the other end and write down the reservation date and time.

"Yes sir, we will see you next Saturday at 6 pm. Is there anything specific you'd like us to do in celebration of your anniversary?"

I rattle off the items that I'd suggested to my boss, Mr. Cicero, which the restaurant shouldtry to implementto attract more clientele. He likes what I've suggested, and I make a note of what should be done to his table.

I've only been here for about a month, and as much as I hate to admit it, Cullen helped me get this damn job.

*****FLASHBACK — Wednesday, September 13, 1978*****

What's that line Charles Dickens wrote? It was the best of times, it was the worst of times [1] ... that is what today officially is for me.

A conundrum.

What's good about today? Well, it's my eighteenth birthday. What's bad about today? It's my birthday _and_ I'm stuck in our downtown area with a friggin' flat freakin' tire _and_ I'm late for my job interview. I need this job like I need air to breathe.

My veryshort stints at being a Farrell's Ice Cream Parlour girl and a clerk at the local library had ended dismally and quickly. I was at Farrell's for three days before I injured the fingers of a handsy customer. _Who knew you couldn't __defend your____derrière from being pinched by paying customers?_

I lasted two weeks at the library until my 'snores' (I do not snore!) reached the ears of the head librarian all the way in the stacks. You should know the stacks are in the deep recesses of the library—the only way one can hear anything from back there is if one has supersonic hearing._ Or my __snores were actually__ that loud._

I kick the offending tire as if the action will magically inflate it. "Damn you," I shout at the inanimate object.

I weigh my options. I can't call Mom because she knows as much as I do about changing tires. I can't call Charles because he's away getting something 'important' as he told my mother this morning, and I can't call Harim because he's away at college.

_Who the hell is left?_

"Can I help you with something?"

_Well if this don't beat to hell?_

"What do you mean by that statement, Ms. Swan?" he asks.

Without turning around I know there'sa grin plastered on his face. When I think about his grin, I think about his lips; his very kissable lips_.__ Damn, __Izzy, get__ a grip!_

"You don't have to get a grip for me. And by the way, thanks for the compliment about my lips."

A sigh escape my lips. I pivot slowly to face him, already knowing who my eyes would land upon. _Of all the days!_ I don't even acknowledge that he's heard my non-verbal slips.

"Cullen."

"Can _I _help you with something?"

I hear his emphasis; the smirk he's wearing as well as what he asks goes straight to my mid-section, making butterflies float around my stomach. _I don't want to ask him for help. No, I won't do it. _

"Um …"

He looks around me since I'm standing in his direct line of sight, and therefore, blocking his view of my 'problem'.

"You seem to have a flat tire there."

_Thanks for stating the obvious!_

"I'm good. Um... I'm just waiting on … um … my mother to come get me." The lie comes out of my mouth before I know it.

"Really?"

He begins to swing the baton in his right hand. "Then, you don't mind if I wait here with you?"

"No!" I screech, and then lower my voice to a normal, speaking level because his eyes looked at me suspiciously.

"No, that's not necessary. You look busy and all. No need to be bothered my little ol' me." I end with a tight smile, waving him away.

"Nothing more important going on around here than helping you, Isabella."

My name slips off his tongue like it belongs there; in his mouth … on his lips.

_Grrr! Snap out of it Izzy_.

Chuckling, he inquires, "Did you just growl?"

"No ... er, no," I sputter out. "Why can't you just leave?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

"I—"

"Cullen, I'm heading back to the station," shouts someone behind me.

I turn my head to my right and I see it's Bent. We've never formally been introduced, but I'm familiar with him from Cullen's letters.

"All right, I'll meet you there in ten," Cullen shouts at the passing figure.

"Isabella," Bent says as he walks past us.

"Officer Warris," I acknowledge.

"You were about to say ..." Cullen prompts.

"I was about to say," I blow out a breath in defeat. "I ... er, I need your damn help."

He smirks, again. And, again, my body responds instantly to his simple action.

"Anything for the birthday girl."

And I'm back to what's turning into a conundrum of a birthday a-freaking-gain! Flat tire, an apparent missed job interview—because there is no way I'm making it across town now—and _he remembers my birthday. _

_Damn it all to hell!_

*****END FLASHBACK*****

**Friday, December 15, 1978**

Cullen called the towing company for them to take up Lucy, and then, he took me to the police station.

He had me call my mom, and then somehow got me to reveal my day's itinerary to him. He brought me to the interview with about five minutes to spare. When I came back to his car, he asked me how it went, but I didn't have the heart to tell him I flubbed through the entire thing. I didn't tell him I was too caught up in his maleness and scent that engulfed _all_ my senses, to appropriately respond to the interviewer.

Afterward, he took me to El Cigno Grazioso, unwillingly, I might add. _Maybe _not all that unwillingly, but you know ... I couldn't let on that I wanted to remain in his company, now could I? When Mr. Cicero came over to say hello—leaving me to wonder onceagain _exactly _how many people Cullen knew—I got a personal introduction. Mr. Cicero began to complain about Alexis, whom he'd recently fired for sleeping with another customer—Cullen started to look uncomfortable at that point—a married customer. The wife had caused a scene during the restaurant's busiest hour. It sounded like a mess to me and I was only an outside observer.

Casually Cullen stated, "You should class up the place with Ms. Swan at the front door, Aro."

And that was that.

Two days after my eighteenth birthday, I was El Cigno Grazioso's hostess.

No interview.

No background check.

No references requested.

Cullen said it; Mr. Cicero agreed; and now, today is my fourth month here.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Here I am to answer the phone, and all I can do is daydream about damn Cullen.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"You've reached El Cigno Grazioso, Upper Salem's finest Italian restaurant. How may I help you?"

"If it isn't Upper Salem's finest woman around, and, just the person I'm looking for."

I'm glad he's calling me. "And what may I do for you?" I ask, smiling.

"You can tell me you're free later so this extremely hungry man can dine with the only woman that fills his soul."

"Seth …"

"Well, it's true. So are you?"

Without looking up, something deep inside me alerts me of Cullen's presence.

"Hello, Ms. Swan," he saunters through the front door with that panty-dousing, damn smirk on his face.

"Isabella, are you—"

"I said hello, Ms. Swan." He releases a breath in my face.

_I sure hope to God he didn't see me suck in his breath. How embarrassing!_

I hold up my forefinger indicating for Cullen to shut the hell up.

"Um, yeah, I'm still here. Sure, sure, I'm free. I'm about to leave work now."

"Okay, I'll pick you up at about ten tonight, yes?"

_That's what I like about Seth. He asks permission. He's never demanding, unlike some damn people I have the misfortune of knowing_.

"Tonight ... ten, sure." I tell him distractedly, quickly hanging up because I see that Cullen is itching to say something I know I'll regret hearing.

"You know you like when _I_ demand you …_ y__ou_ just won't admit it yet," he states confidently.

He must have an 'Izzy-is-talking-to-Seth-radar' in his car or on his watch; because he never fails to interrupt us.

"You're pretty," a small voice says.

I peep over the podium and see the cutest little boy holding Cullen's hand. He has inquisitive, brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

"She's pretty, Daddy," he points at me.

"That she is son, that she is."

"You're a handsome fellow. And you are …"

"I'm Emmett Edward Anthony Cullen, please to meet you." He stands on his tiptoes and sticks his hand in my direction.

"Please to meet you, Mr. Emmett Edward Anthony Cullen," I grip his little hand.

"No … no, don't say all my names. That's for when I'm in trouble, right, Daddy?" He turns to Cullen. Not giving him a chance to answer, he questions me, "I'm not in trouble, am I, lady?" He whispers this last part.

I come around and kneel in front of him. "No, you're not in trouble."

He rewards me with a big smile. "Then, you should call me Em. Right, Dad?"

"Right, son."

"What's your name?"

"My name is Isabella Marie Swan."

"You have lots of names like me."

"Uh-huh. And just like you I have a shorter name too."

He leans closer to me as if I'm about to tell him a secret. "What's that?"

"It's Izzy," I whisper into his ear.

He puts a hand on my shoulder, whispering, "I like that name better."

"Me too, Em."

"Ms. Swan, is table seven available?"

Straightening, I go back around the podium. I don't need to look at theseating chart to know the table is empty. I look only to buy myself more time in the presence of the Cullen men.

"That table is available, Mr. Cullen". From the side slot on the podium, I get an adult and a child's menu. "Follow me, gentlemen."

"She called us gentlemen … even me." He giggles.

_This kid is too cute. _

"Yeah, buddy."

I continue walking toward the table, and I swear I hear Cullen mutter, "Damn, blue balls for sure now." But I'm not a hundred percent sure, since I don't have supersonic hearing or anything. They take their seats and I give them each a menu.

"Won't you join us, Ms. Swan?"

"Yeah, Izzy, come eats with us," he says with a slight lisp.

"Em, it's eat; not eats."

"Okay, Daddy. Come e … ea … eat with us, please?"

"No can do Em, I' heading out the door right now."

Cullen starts looking at his menu but Em is a ball buster-in-training. _He doesn't know it yet, though_.

"Where do you have to go, Izzy?"

"Em …"

"I just wanna know why she can't eat with us," he grumbles, looking particularly adorable.

"I'm going home, then I'll be having dinner with a friend later on. But, I promise the next time you ask me, I'll be ready to eat with you guys, okay?"

"I guess." He picks up his menu.

"See you around, Cullen."

"Ah, Ms. Swan … remember what you told me on the day we met?"

I turn back around to face him. His son is busy trying to choose his meal, I guess.

"I've said a lot of things since then. How am I to remember two years ago?" I put my hands on my hips in exasperation because this is what Cullen does—he exasperates me.

"Well, allow me to remind you, then. You stated and I quote: Your possessions are always well guarded and you've only given themout to a select few." He pauses as his eyes take on a hard glint to them. "I hope that's still the case," he admonishes with a stern overtone dripping in every word.

"It wasn't your concern then and it's still none of your concern now," I snap turning my back to him as he laughs like a madman.

Ugh!

He has to be the planet's most frustrating; most exasperating; the single most nosey-as-hell ... most sexiest; best damn kisser; and by the way he moves on the dance floor, I just bet he's good in …

_Stop this, Izzy_ I scream at myself.

I punch my timecard near the kitchen and take the closest exit as I try to forget about my obsession with Upper Salem's infuriating man.

**About 7 pm on Tuesday, February 20, 1979**

"Happy birthday to you; happy birthday dear, Renee; happy birthday to you," we sing off key to my mother.

She blows out the candles and starts slicing up the cake. She insisted on having a birthday gathering, her words not mine, to celebrate her fifty-sixth year of life, again, her words not mine. I look around at the faces in the kitchen and I hate all the hypocrisy floating around me.

There goes Jane; as usual, putting herself on center stage even though today is not about her. My father is holding court by our mini-bar area, playing up his husband-of-the-century role. Mrs. Johnson, from down the block who should have dropped the Missus a long time ago since Mr. Johnson left her ass, is smiling at my mother and her friends while inquiring about rhubarb pie.

There are about twenty or so people here. Harim called earlier today, informing mom he wouldn't be able to see her. And, Seth … he had an unexpected meeting with a superior, so he is not coming.

The bell rings, but no one moves toward the front door, so the maid, in the personhood of me, goes to answer it.

We have one of those solid oak doors. There's no peephole and no glass to look through to make sure the person on the other side of the door is a person you want to let into your home. So, we use the bay window,to the right of the door, to look through. Unfortunately, the instant you do, the person on the other side sees you. Neither the scalloped-window treatments nor the few potted plants my mother has on the windowsill offers much anonymity, and so you're almost always forced to open the door. Only so you don't appear rude.

I look through the window and see the back of someone, and as my eyes land on the person's rolled-out-of-bed hair, I know who it is.

I yank the door open because I don't know why she invited him here. "How may I help you?"

He turns to face me. And as always, the vibrancy of his bronze-colored hair, along with his indescribable eye color, makes my heartbeat gallop and awakens the place between my legs. In his hands iswhat looks to be freshly picked Morning Glory. I only know the type of flowers because my mother has forced me to help her with her gardening.

"I'm here to see the birthday girl," he beams.

Ever since my birthday when he spoke to my mother, asking for her permission to take me to the job interview I never got, she's taken a liking to him. When she met him that same night, and he told her he secured a job for me, they became long, lost, best friends or some-damn-thing.

"Officer Cullen," my mother screams from across the living room.

_Now she wants __to see who was__ at the door. Go figure_.

"Izzy let the man in for goodness' sake. It's cold out there," she breezes past me to let him inside.

"No bother ma'am. Isabella was just about to let me in."

"Izzy, get your head out of the clouds and take the man's jacket. I swear people would think I didn't train you properly," she fusses as she walks away from us.

_If only she knew the real Cullen, she'd kick him out on his ass __... albeit,__ a nice squeezable ass._

"Only one way to find out if it's as squeezable as it looks Isabella …" he whispers close to my ear.

I don't answer him as I grab his coat, and maybe, as I'm walking to the coat closet, I sniff it _just a little bit_ inhaling that Cullen scent that drives me crazy.

Heading back to where the rest of the guests are, I see he has been welcomed by everyone—even if they don't know him or his relation to this family. Jane saddles up beside him as he hands my mother the floral arrangement.

"Look what Officer Cullen brought me everyone. An arrangement of Morning Glory … my favorite," my mother gushes to the room.

That's when I realize that she's had one too many, in her haste to celebrate her birthday. That's what I choose to ascribe as the reason for her loud announcement of his gift.

_Like he's so damn special!_

I walk over to the bar area to get a bottle of Pepsi when I overhear Jane and Mrs. Johnson vying for Cullen's attention. _Sucker _I laugh internally. Heading over to the bay windows, I see the darkening skies and wish I was anywhere but here. I love my mother, but the rest of these plastics here tonight are not relevant to me at all.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

"You wouldn't know what to do with them."

"Try me."

And I know since I've been hanging—unintentionally, of course—around him for some months now that he's trying to remind me of his request from Lounge 57.

And simply because this whole affair of my mother's birthday celebration is bogus, I tell him, "I have tried you and you've left me wanting for something new."

Holding a hand over his heart, he says, "Touché."

I let out a snort. "I believe that I've hurt your feelings as much as I believe there's life on other planets."

"Since you've no regards for my hurt feelings, I'll mosey on back to work." He chuckles. "Mind grabbing my coat?"

_Now I'm going to be stuck here with old biddy Johnson and my slut of a 'cousin', Jane. Shoot me now, please._

"Care to walk me to my car?"

I don't think about it too long before I grab my coat, not saying a word to anyone inside. It's not as though I'm going to be missed. We walk in silence to his car that's parked a few houses down from mine.

"It sure is cold out today." I pull the zipper all the way to my chin as my hand goes to his car door handle.

"Don't even think about it."

"Geesh, I'm just trying to get in your car real quick. Be cool."

He opens the door for me, and I sink into the lush seats. _This seat is real__ soft …__ and the leather is the most unusual shade of brown I've ever seen in a car_.

He gets into the car, puts the key into the ignition and I suddenly feel claustrophobic. I never realized how big … er, I mean how tall he is.

"Damn, you're tall. I feel like you're sucking up all the air."

"We are in quite a mood, aren't we?"

"No, we aren't," I say a little snippy, wondering why he's talking in the third person. "I'm simply stating a fact. You're damn tall is all."

"You make it sound like a bad thing. You don't like tall men?" I hear the amusement in his words.

Just to get under his skin, I reply, "I only like one tall man and his name is ..."

"Please refrain from talking about another man while you're with me," he says, looking out the driver's window. "Plus, it won't last." This he tells me while looking me square in the eyes.

"What the hell do you know?"

It's not like he can see in the future.

"I know that it won't last."

Harrumph. That's the only 'intelligent' thing I can think to express atthis moment.

"I know that he doesn't make you feel like I do."

"I—"

The idiot continues his monologue as if I'm not present.

"I know you'll end up with me. That I know," he confides.

I can't help it. A hysterical laugh burst from my belly—ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

"I seriously needed that laugh. Thanks." I unzip my jacket and shrug it off.

He drops his right hand on the nape of my neck and lightly caresses it. I lean my head back into his hand, basking in the feel of his fingertips on my skin. _That feels really good_ my mind acknowledges what my body already knows.

"If I were a lesser man, the crap you just spouted, that you're trying to convince yourself is factual, would unhinge me. But I know what's going to happen, so there is no need for me to browbeatyou with the truth."

I clear my throat in hopes that a rush of saliva would loosen my tongue that's been stuck to the top of mouth since he began talking. If I allow myself, I'll have to admit that there's a small truth in what he says.

"Do you mind if I turn on the radio?"

"Sure."

We are both lost in our own thoughts and the only sounds in the car is Elvis Presley's soul-stirring voice. As _A__re You Lonesome Tonight _plays, I'm desperate to know what he's thinking; but more than that, I'd honestly like to know one thing. I swallow my pride and the lump in my throat and decide to ask.

"Cullen, what do you want?"

"You already know."

"What do you want?" I repeat.

"You already know," he asserts.

"Really, what do _you_ want?" I beg.

"You know the answer, Isabella; you're just scared that you want the same thing."

"No, I don't. You sound like an operator or something," I huff in disgust.

"A what?"

"An operator, a cheater; someone that's so good he never gets caught. Get with the times man!" I yell.

"What's gotten you so upset? Better yet, _who_ are you upset with?"

I don't know exactly at what point during his questioning that I start to cry. All I know is the floodgates open when he asks _who_ I am mad at. I can't stop crying even as he pulls me into himself, a little awkwardly because of the arm rest, the tears continue.

I wish our start hadn't been so rocky.

I wish he didn't remind me of my father and his cheating ways.

"Stop." I try to wiggle free from his arms. "Let me go," I demand through my tears.

"Who are you really mad at, baby?"

He doesnot let me go, and somewhere deep down—_way_ _down deep_—I like that he doesn't. He seems to hold onto me tighter, and I use him to help me hold together the slipping puzzle pieces that are my life at this moment. His term of endearment throws my emotions here, there and every-damn-where.

My cries are now sobs. When he looks satisfied that I'm no longer a goo ball of tears, he decides to let me go. His hands loosen their hold from around me, and my brain screams no… wanting his touch.

I exhale and look out the passenger's window. "You ever notice the more you run away from something, the more you run, dead smack, into it."

"Ah …"

"That's not a question for you to answer."

He rests his head backward and closes his eyes. So quietly that I would have missed it had I not been looking in his direction,he admits, "Yes."

I turn my head away from him because even though he reminds me of my father, I know that we have more in common than I'd like to own up to.

"I have to leave," I mumble, looking at his side profile.

"I don't want you to," he murmurs, disappointment lacing his statement.

"This is too much. You make me want to do things I never thought _I'd _consider," I stab a finger at my chest, hoping he knows what I'm hinting at and read between the words I've said.

"I—"

Interrupting him, I whimper, "I'm with someone else ... and so are you." I tell him with more determination than I feel. "We can't …" my voice wavers.

He angles his body toward me. "That's the thing, _I'm_ totally free."

He drops the bomb.

The silence that radiates in the car is filled with so much—disbelief, lust, and relief; and those are all coming off of me.

Because I can't help how I feel—and, apparently I'm a horny, despicable girlfriend to Seth because I only wantto lick Cullen's face in spite of him being a cheating asshole—I fly over the armrest and straddle him.

I don't think about what I'm doing.

I react.

I act.

My lips are forceful on his, but his remain soft ... pliant and yielding. Somehow, the softness registers in my brain and I instantly regret being where I am. I don't want to kiss him like this. I don't want to do this ... I don't want to follow in my father's footsteps and become a cheater. Maybe he senses my confusion and regret because he begins to soothingly caress my cheeks and rub under my eyes—all the while peppering my face with small kisses.

"I want you in my life," he breathes out.

"I'll". Kiss. "Be". Kiss. "Here". Kiss. "When". Kiss. "You". Kiss. "Decide". Kiss. "It's". Kiss. "Me". Kiss. "You". Kiss. "Want". Kiss.

When his tongue demands an entrance into my mouth, I oblige him … and I'm so glad I do. Not even Jetpup or my few kisses with Seth compares to _this_. I'm not sure what he's telling me, but all I know is that if he asked me to come home with him, I would … Seth or no Seth. _And that's the sad truth_.

"But what do I tell …" I try to ask the moment his lips give me room to breathe.

"Tell the truth," he replies.

He continues to hold me tightly, and we don't say anything for what seems like an eternity until I break the silence.

"It's not so simple."

"It is to me."

"Yeah, this from King Heartbreaker," I spit out bitterly.

"I was going to come cl—"

I hold up a hand to stop whatever lie he was about to tell me.

He hissesand I think he gets the point. "Call me whatever you like. _I _know who I want, and I'm staring right at her."

"How can you want me? You don't even know me," I grit out in my frustration.

"I know you."

"Apparently you don't. If you did, you'd know I'm no cheater, and I don't get with cheaters!" I push at his upper body.

He grabs my hands and folds them into his. "You got me. I don't know you, but here's what I know … _I_ know I want you."

"This isn't about want—"

"That's the only thing _this_," he flicks his index finger at the space between us, finishing, "Is about … me wanting you and you wanting me right, damn back!"

"Cullen—"

He lowers his voice and lays his forehead on my chest … almost in defeat; almost like he's giving up.

"Tell me you don't feel it and I'll leave you alone. Just tell me," he demands brokenly.

"You both deserve someone better than a simple, doe-eyed girl like me." It's the truth.

"You have it all wrong," he reveals as his lips hover over mine. "I know _I_ don't deserve you, but I still want to make _you mine_." Suddenly, he growls and sucks my lower lip between his teeth.

Our kiss turns tumultuous just as the radio host announces, "This one is dedicated to all of you out there who are stuck between two good people. You like one, but there's something about that other one. A word to the wise: the heart wants what the heart wants. So this is for you."

Mary MacGregor's soft voice sings,

_There are times when a woman has to say what's on her mind._

_Even though she knows how much it's gonna hurt._

_Before I say another word let me tell you, I love you._

_Let me hold you close and say these words as gently as I can._

_There's been another man that I've needed and I've loved_...

_Damn. I'm so screwed!_

**1970s terms [2] used in this chapter:**

Be cool - Relax, man!

bogue - something that sucks

bogus - to be annoyed at something

crib - home

fuzz - cop/police

kitties - another name for friends or groups

operator - a guy who knows how to get the ladies

plastics - fakes, phonies, not real

relevant - worth someone's time

[1] Charles Dickens, _A Tale of Two Cities_, 1859

[2] www . inthe70s generated / terms . shtml (remove the spaces)

**A/N:** Check out the blog luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for chapter title songs looks and much more. Join me over at www . facebook groups / 158767884293997 / (remove the spaces). A huge thank you to my fabulous beta, Ms. Sunflower Fanfiction (her Facebook name).


	17. Chapter 16

Shout-out to the first three reviewers of Chapter 15: shaz308, 3c cullen, and debslmac. To everyone that has reviewed, followed and favored _The Songs of Our Lives_, welcome and my heartfelt appreciation.

This chapter may be too graphic, for some; and could cause some negative triggers, for others. There's talk of abortion, parental neglect, and physical abuse; if reading about any of these very real issues are not your cup of tea, please move on and wait to read chapter seventeen.

Chapter 16 ~ Mama (by Connie Francis)

When the evening shadows fall

and the lovely day is through

Then with longing I recall

the years I spent with you

Mama, I miss the days

when you were near to guide me

Mama, those happy days

when you were here beside me

Safe in the glow of your love

Sent from the heavens above

Nothing can ever replace

The warmth of your tender embrace

Oh, Mama, until the day

that we're together once more

I'll live in these memories

Until the day that we're together once more

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Mama_ are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Sunrise on Sunday, May 13, 1979**

_All I can see is __white; white bed with white linens and pillowcases, and a caddy-cornered white couch. The only other color in the room is the black hat lazily thrown on top of the bed. __Through the sliding glass door, beyond the sheer curtains, my eyes take in the breathtaking view. I'm looking at calm waters and a sun that's valiantly trying to peek through the clouds. __The only other color in the room is the black hat lazily thrown on top of the bed._

_Picking up the hat, I finger the veil and run a finger over the felt material. __It's well-worn,__ and seemingly, well-loved. Somewhere, my brain knows __I __should recognize it. I walk toward the sliding glass door and look out again._

"_Where the hell am I?" I muse out loud._

"_You're with me, baby."_

_It can't be! I spin around so fast I could have given myself whiplash. _

_It's __her__._

"_What …" I sputter. "What the hell is going on here?" I manage to get out._

"_Edward, you'll mind your language," she admonishes._

_Instantly, the five-year old boy being reprimanded comes out. _

"_Yes, ma'am."_

"_Ma'am. What's with this ma'am bit?" She laughs a little._

_I take a hesitant step toward her. _

"_Momma?" My brain can't compute what my eyes are seeing right now._

_She takes some purposeful steps toward me. "Yes, Eddie. It's me."_

_I step backward, shaking my head. "No. This can't be. You're dead. I saw you in the goddamn casket."_

_She takes a step toward me. "It really is me." She waves her hand with a light chuckle._

_I take the last couple of steps toward her and look deeply into her jade-color eyes that look so much like mine and __'Aunt Liz's'.__ Even after all these years, it's hard to believe the bitch is __actually__ a relative._

_She slaps me, very hard. "That's no way to think of your mother!" she barks at me._

_I rub my __jaw as I stand__ directly in front of her—she's certainly hasn't lost her heavy-handedness in her afterlife. _

"_How the hell did you hear what I was thinking?"_

"_It's just something I can do here." She indicates with a shrug of her shoulder._

_I circle her and rub my jaw in contemplation. She looks the same—she's in her burial outfit from __1969__. She does not move allowing me to peruse her._ _I sniff her hai__r,__ and the familiar scent of fried chicken and chocolate cake that clung to her when she was __alive __hits me in the gut._

"_You look like her and smell like her. But I just don't know …"_

"_Oh for Christ's sake, it's me I tell you."_

_She walks away from me and picks up the hat I'd held a couple of minutes ago. In my __haste, __I'd dropped it on the floor._

"_I used to love wearing this hat," she mutters._

_I laugh mirthlessly. "You sure did. It's the only good thing __she__ ever gave to you."_

_I open the sliding glass __door,__ and there's a gentle breeze coming off the water that is cool and sobering._

"_It's not the only thing."_

_I spin around, leaving the door open, which makes the wind push the curtains inward. I look at her through the white gauzy material. "Yeah? What other good thing has that selfish bitch ever given to you?"_

_She takes a seat on the edge of the bed and rests the hat down reverently to her right. She looks up at me with an overabundance of love radiating from her eyes. "She gave me you."_

_I chuckle. Even to my ears, it sounds forced. "Me?" I point to myself. "Can't be me because according to her I'm the piece of shit she should have thrown away when my father told her to!"_

"_You know she's not right up here." Momma taps her temple._

"_Yeah?" That's a shitty excuse I'm not buying._ _"More like she's not right __here."__ I point to my heart._

_She doesn't say anything._

"_I don't know why she ever opened her legs to a man older than her in the first place. She should have killed me! Waste of fucking space is what I am!" I repeat all the things Liz told me at Momma's funeral._

"_Stop that!" __Sh__e__ shouts harshly, covering her ears._

_I wish I could have done that while Liz was spewing her venom. I can't understand why my own mother didn't want me, and if she never wanted me I __feared____no one else __would__. Those thoughts have me crumbling to the floor. I'm reduced to my naive, nineteen-year old self who learned the truth about my __'aunt'__. I rush over and hug her midsection, needing understanding, but doubting she could help me make sense of it all._

_She holds me as tightly as I am holding her, __tenderly rubbing__ the nape of my neck._

"_I miss you so much … so goddamn much."_

"_I know," she replies sadly._

"_Make me understand," I ask, rising to my feet and raking my fingers through my hair. "Tell me something that will make me understand why she made you pretend to be my mother."_

_She looks decidedly uncomfortable. But for the first time, I want the truth … no, I need the truth!_

"_Please," I poke my finger at her, begging, "You owe me that much."_

_She opens her mouth, but no sounds come __out____as if she's fighting for the right words to tell me. I walk over to the __opened__, sliding glass door and the incoming breeze dries up the few tears in the corner of my eyes._

"_It's not right. What daughter makes her mother pretend they are sisters? What 'mother' insists that her __only,__ biological child call her aunt simply because she'd never told her husband she'd been a whore for _the_ Carlisle Edward Anthony Cullen, known womanizer of Westerland?"_

"_I …" she begins._

_I hear her approaching me from behind. I wait for her to finish but she's doesn't. I go on to tell her what she'd never heard since she was in a coma at the time Liz chose to enlighten me._

"_Like she said at the hospital, the day I left Westerland, I'm the product of a good fuck that messed up her chances with Ed. If __she had__ gone through __with____the abortion, she would have had her happily-ever-after with the man of her dreams. __Instead,__ she was stuck with a bum of a husband and a son-of-a-bitch for a son! Her sad life was a result of me breathing."_

_She wraps her hands around me and leans her head on my back._

"_For years, when you sent me to her house, I could never understand her hatred. Everything I did bothered her. I tried my best to do as I was __told, but__ what did I get in return? A sore butt from the all the paddling I received from her fucking husband, Corporal mutherfucking Jackson!"_

_She rubs her hands on my __stomach, but__ right now nothing can squelch all that's coming to the surface. I've hidden this for too long. I shrug out of her embrac__e,__ and she lets me go. I walk onto the balcony. The water is __extremely__ choppy __now,__ and the sky has darkened considerably. Now the weather matches what I'm feeling._

"_She never said a word to __him; she__ just let him beat the hell out of her'nephew'.__ After awhile, I could handle his hits. The things she muttered and whispered just loud enough for me to hear, that's the shit that confused the hell out of me!"_

_Leaning my head over the balcony, I see the waves are almost to the height of the balcony. _

"_Always __whispering; always__ fucking muttering when the corporal wasn't around. That's all she ever did. Things like: I don't know __why __your mother ever had you; you're a fucking waste of space; and, oh, the best was, you ruined everything for her," I recite the things Liz __had said__ in the __past before I had known__ she was my mother._

_She's still silent because this is the first __she has__ heard of my summer experiences at Liz's. I'd never told a living soul about anything that went on at that house. I wanted to forget everything that happened in the blu__e,__ painted house by the creek. I inhale the breeze coming off the ocean then turn my back to the water and brace one bended knee on the balcony._

_I exhale as realization hits me. "You can't tell me anything, now that I think about it. __You are__ not her. I guess it's my lot in life to simply live with all the shitty things she put me through." I look her in the eyes since she never followed me out onto the balcony and I thought, "The question you_ _can answer is this: why did you pretend to be my mother?"_

"_I ... I don't know what you want me to say here?"_

"_I want someone to tell me the goddamn truth for once," I retort venomously._

"_Eddie, she was only fifteen when she had you …" she admits, "She … you were too young to remember, but she was so depressed after Ed left her. For __two, years,__ she was someone I didn't recognize!"_

_I pinch my fingers playing an air violin. La-da-dee-fucking-da_.

"_Don't be so dismissive, Edward," she states as her voice rises. "You think a mother wants to see her child suffer? No mother wants that. I made the decision for her to go away, take some time to herself, and I would raise you. She needed a chance to start over. Your father did a number on her. He was the first man for her, and when she ended up pregnant, he just up and left her! Piece of shit!"_

_Ed is a piece of shit I agree with her silently._

"_She went away, got her life together, and when she came back to Westerland at twenty-four years old, she was the respectable wife of Corporal J. Jackson," she states, a little proudly toward the end of her speech._

_She looks to me as if waiting for my agreement about how '__well'__ Liz did in her marriage. I don't say a word._

_She huffs indignantly. "Well, she proved everyone wrong. Someone did want __her,__ like I'd told her, and he married her. Even, if she had a baby out of wedlock," she finishes passionately._

_My continued silence must bother her because her eyes take a hardened glint I'd never seen before._

"_So she came back and pretended not to have a __child, so-__the-hell-what?"_

_What she says jolts my entire being._

"_Whoa … hold up. So … so … you agree with her?" I stammer incredulously._

_I'd always thought Momma would be on my side. That she would be as upset as I was __at____the way Liz had revealed my true parentage at the funeral._

"_The world is not so black and white, and I think you know that or you will pretty soon," she replies ominously. "Am I mad __at__ how and where she told you she __was __your real mother? Yes! But am I mad that __she__ lied in the first place? No. You have to understand here—"_

"_Motherfucker!"_

_She tsks, covering her ears. "When did your language get so deplorable, Edward"_

"_When __you" I step toward her, "started__ sending me to that bitch's house when I turned ten." I sneer._

_She opens her mouth as if to defend Li__z,__ but I hold a hand out to silence her._

"_You subjected me to nine years of her bullshit rants and ol' boy's abuse. But, I guess in your mind, the end justifies the mean__s__ because Liz was the one who got the raw part of the deal, right? So what __...__ I don't matter? What happened to me was simply unfortunate, right? At least in your eyes," I rant sarcastically._

"_I had no—"_

_I cut her __off, and get to the heart of the matter, at least to me. "When I was younger, I was glad when summer ended, and I'd go home to a 'mother' that loved me. Sure, my 'aunt' hated me for no good reason,__ but none of that mattered when August thirty-first came rolling around. But that turned out to be a pipe dream because I never had a mother who loved me," I bark out, heaving my chest as my anger reached another level._

_I enter the room again and throw myself __o__nto the couch. I'm tired of this. Liz and Ed always fucking drain me! No child should go through not knowing their parents. It's just not right. _

"_Is that why you stayed with that dreadful woman?" __She __asks finally finding her voice._

"_Yeah, that is__ what a parent does, Momma. A parent sucks it up because the kid didn't ask to be here and it's not the kid's fault the relationship__ went__ sour!"_

"_But you were never happy with Ruthie."_

"_So what? At least my_," _I point to my chest, "kid knows who __I am and knows__ his_ _father loves him. At least he knows what it's like to be raised by two parents."_

"_But. You. Weren't. Happy."_

"_I'm happy knowing I'm a __devoted__ father to Em. That's my slice of happiness. My kid will never go through what I went through! Not if I have anything to do with it."_

_From my vantage point on the couch, I see the morning sun struggling to peek through the still darkened skies. The water is quiet now. My eyes follow Momma's movement as she walks in front of me, picks up the hat, and heads in the direction of the door._

_Looking me squarely in the eyes, she questions, "So are you going to mess up Isabella's __life just as your__ father did to your mother?"_

Ring. Ring.

_What the hell?_

Ring. Ring.

"Hello," I answer gruffly. I cough a few times to get the sleep out of my voice.

"You weren't going to call me today?"

_Fuck!_

"Um …"

"Don't finish that sentence Edward, you know how I hate liars," she cackles.

_She hates liars—that's rich coming from her._ I don't have a response, but I know she really doesn't want one.

"What are you still doing in bed; it's 6pm. Don't you have to work today, or did they come to their senses and fire your ass from the police department?" She questions with hope in her voice.

_Always wishing bad shit to happen to me_.

Her evil desires wake me up, and I stop stammering because that's what she likes. She likes me at a disadvantage.

"What do you want?"

"Aren't you going to wish your mother a happy mother's day, son?" She slurs.

In the background, I hear the slam of what sounds like glass on top something hard. She's drinking.

"Mother's day is reserved for _real _mothers, Liz," I snarl.

If I didn't have Em, I wouldn't even remember today's significance.

"Well, I'll take that response as your well wishes then, toodles," she ends the call as brusquely as she began it.

For the past ten years, since Momma's death, Liz has made it a point to somehow contact me on this day. Reminding me that _she _isindeed my mother, and as such, there's a certain level of gratitude that I should exhibit toward her. Flopping backward onto my pillow, I know that going back to sleep is out of the question. Plus, I have no desire to continue that dream.

**Sunset on Sunday, May 13, 1979**

_This is a nice __beach _I muse. Happy couples are frolicking, kids are burying each other in the sand, and a couple of teens are throwing a frisbee around. In front of me is Upper Salem's best beachfront, LaPush Beach. There is an admission charge to use the beach and its facilities because this is the one beach that attracts the few tourists that came through Upper Salem from their trip to the Catskills.

I've been here about an hour or so mulling over the dream from this morning.

"_So are you going to mess up Isabella's life like you father did to your mother?"_

Like a bad line in a song that somehow gets stuck in your head, so is the question Momma asked me. And like every other time before, when I think of _her_, she appears. No, she actually does. Off to my left, I see her coming out of the water and oh boy, does she look breathtaking in her two-piece.

_Damn_. _The body on my woman is in-freaking-credible!_

How in the world had I missed seeing her? I shade my eyes from the sun and slightly push up off the towel. .

"Hello, Edward," someone sing-songs behind me.

Turning around, I'm face to face with Jane, Ms. Swan's cousin. She's in a black, one-piece with a netted portion from her chest to her navel. Further down are her long, toned legs. I'm a man, and I notice these things.

I continue rising to my feet because I hate people towering over me. Standing, I now realize her height. She's as tall as Mr. Swan and Harim.

"Jane."

She walks further under the tree toward me. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know, taking in some sun." I motion upward to the sky.

She licks her lip. Then, her eyes land on my chest. I take a small step backward. _I should have put my shirt on before I stood up_. To break the uncomfortable silence, I ask, "And you?"

"Oh, we're," she states with a grimace, "having a picnic in celebration of Mother's Day."

"That's nice."

She picks up my shirt and holds it a little too close to her nose for my liking. Her tongue darts out her mouth, and she licks her lip again. Biting the corner of her lip, she says, "Do you need this?"

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

As I'm reaching for my shirt, I smell _her _approaching. Even covered with LaPush's salty seawater, Ms. Swan's natural essence that is unique to her engulfs my nostrils, and I inhale deeply. The shirt dangles in Jane's hand, forgotten, as I turn my head smiling at Ms. Swan.

"Ms. Swan." I tip my head in her direction.

"Cullen."

You can't wipe away the smile that is plastered on my face now!

"Jane?"

"Izzy."

Okay, this is weird. Why are cousins speaking to each other like this? Both their voices are dripping with animosity. Ms. Swan's arms are folded over her upper body while Jane stands with her feet apart, and arms akimbo.

"So, I hear you're celebrating Mother's Day with a picnic?" I address Ms. Swan hoping to break the tense atmosphere.

My girl does not take her eyes off Jane who has now moved forward and is standing to my right, and, still clutching my shirt.

_Shit. This doesn't look so good._

"Yeah, but we're about to leave. Sorry for interrupt—" she starts off before deciding not to finish.

She walks swiftly in the opposite direction, and all I see is her butterscotch-ensconced ass swaying out of my view.

"Stupid teenager," Jane mutters.

First, my fucked-up dream.

Then, my fucked-up call.

Now, my fucked-up day at the beach.

_I hate goddamn Mother's Day!_


	18. Chapter 17

Shout-out to the first three reviewers of Chapter 16: 3c cullen, RoseArcadia, and debslmac. To everyone that's reviewed, followed and favored _The Songs of Our Lives_, welcome and my heartfelt appreciation.

Chapter 17 ~ You Really Got a Hold on Me (by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles)

I don't like you, but I love you

Seems that I'm always thinkin' of you

You treat me badly, I love you madly

You've really got a hold on me

(You really got a hold on me)

You really got a hold on me

(You really got a hold on me)

Baby, I don't want you, but I need you

Don't wanna kiss you, but I need to

You do me wrong now, my love is strong now

You've really got a hold on me

(You really got a hold on me)

You really got a hold on me

(You really got a hold on me)

Baby, I love you and all I want you to do

Is just hold me, hold me, hold me, hold me

Tighter, tighter

I wanna leave you, don't wanna stay here

Don't wanna spend another day here

I wanna split now, I can't quit now

You've really got a hold on me

(You really got a hold on me)

You really got a hold on me

(You really got a hold on me)

Baby, I love you and all I want you to do

Is just hold me, hold me, hold me, hold me

(Please, squeeze)

You really got a hold on me

(You really got a hold on me)

I said you really got a hold on me

(I said you really got a hold on me)

You know, you really got a hold on me

(You know, you really got a hold on me)

You know, you really got a hold on me

(You know, you really got a hold on me)

I said you really got a hold on me

(I said you really got a hold on me)

You know, you really got a hold on me

(You know, you really got a hold on me)

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _You Really Got a Hold of Me _are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Saturday, June 23, 1979**

"So, what are you going to do, Bird?"

"How the hell should I know, Rosie, my life is screwed, I tell you."

She laughs. "In more ways than one."

I growl. "You are not helping!"

"Sorry ... Sorry, lighten up," she encourages with the millionth chuckle since I phoned her.

"Yeah, you can laugh and tell me to lighten up. _Your_ boyfriend didn't propose to you the same day _you_ slept with someone else," I yell into the phone.

_Obviously Rosie __is not__ getting the gravity of the shit I've put myself into!_

"Lots of people would kill to be in your grave situation," she says, sighing. "Stuck between eye candy Seth, and hot-as-hell, Cullen."

_She's kind of right. Damn!_

"Bird, this could be a good thing here," she tells me encouragingly.

"How exactly?" I whisper-yell.

"No need to yell," she mutters.

I lower my voice realizing that I did yell when I actually should have whispered. "I slept with Cullenon _his_ damn birthday while I had another man's ring in my bag," I repeat as if she does not know the situation.

"By the way, how was it?" She teases.

"Rosie …"

"Bird ..."

"That's really—"

"You have to give me something here, babe. You're talking to a chick that's gotten zero action in the past year, please …" she begs like the slut she is.

But, because she's my very, desperate friend, I decide to tell her something. I peek around the corner to make sure none of the wait staff is walking toward my place in the front of El Cigno Grazioso.

"It was so good. The things that man can do …" I gush like a school girl.

And that's what got me in trouble three days ago.

*****FLASHBACK — Wednesday, June 20, 1979*****

When _will_ this day end? Glancing again at the clock, I realize I've only been at El Cigno Grazioso for thirty minutes. Seth is meeting me here as he passes on his way to New York City for a meeting. He begged me to make time for him because he has big news to share with me.

_I really need to end this thing with Seth._

Ever since that evening in Cullen's car, I've been distant toward Seth, and I know he's picked up on it. In his own subtle way, Cullen has, unfortunately, changed me. I haven't been the same since the weekend of my sixteenth birthday, almost three years ago.

Lately, my brain is stuck on all things Cullen-related. The only other people that I think about as much as him are stupid Jane and her 'uncle' Charles. Those two sons-of-bitches are my main motivators to save as much as I can so I will finally be able to enroll in Kingington Teacher's College. _Cousin my ass! _She looks more like Charles goddamn Swan than I do. And, Renee is playing deaf, dumb and blind to that shit.

"Isabella," he waves his hand in my face.

_When did he get here?_

"Seth?"

He leans over the podium and pecks my lips. "Are you all right? You seem pretty out of it."

I guess it's time to play happy Bella, girlfriend of Seth. Plastering a smile on my face, I respond, "I'm good. Just thinking about some things; are you ready?"

He nods. "You have someone covering for you, right?"

"Let me go get her real quick." I walk to the back and ask Jessie to cover for me.

I swing my bag over my shoulder as I walk toward him. "We can use the gazebo out back."

"That's fine. I need to hurry though, I honestly don't have time to make this stop," he says a little frustrated.

We walk out the door and down the alleyway that leads to the back of the restaurant.

"Then you shouldn't have made the stop, Seth," I point out as I step off the first landing leading inside to the gazebo.

_I really need to end this_.

"No. I should," he groans. "I'm sorry, Bella. I'm just nervous and excited at the same time." He fists his hair.

I sit on the wooden bench and pat the place beside me indicating he should sit; his pacing is a little too much for me this morning.

"Tell me what's got you nervous _and_ excited," I tease, hoping to lighten the situation.

He stops pacing. "I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

I'm a glass-filled type of girl, so I ask for the good news first.

"Bella, my sweet, wonderful, Bella." He rushes to hold both my hands in his. "I'm being promoted."

I jump upward from my seated position. I think I show the expected amount of excitement upon hearing my boyfriend's good news.

"That's excellent, Seth."

"You're looking at CaptainSeth Clearwater," he boasts, adjusting his army hat.

"Oh my goodness, your parents must be so proud," I tell him, sitting back down.

"That's not the best news …"

"What could be better than a rank change?"

"The promotion that comes with it. You're looking at the Captain of Ft. Irwin National Training Center in San Bernardino, California."

"What?" I scream. "That's your dream job. It's the same post your father held!"

My genuine excitement makes me extremely happy, and I think to myself, _I can be a good girlfriend_.

My mind isn't always on Cullen. Just the thought of his name and I'm reminded of Mother's day. A vision of a shirtless Cullen pops up. Even though I see Seth's lips moving all I see is shirtless Cullen. I mentally salivate over his firm, well-defined, abdominal muscles that were on display. Goddamn Jane had to ruin it by standing too damn close to my ... I mean, Cullen with _his_ shirt in _her _grimy hands!

"Earth to, Bella. Hello …" Seth's five fingers pass in front of my eyes.

I blink. "Huh?"

"You want me to say it again, don't you?" he chuckles. "Well I will. Will you, Bella, make me the happiest man by consenting to be my wife?"

"Huh …"

"Izzy!" Jessie yells from somewhere near Seth and me.

"Yes …"

"Oh you've made me so happy," he grins spinning me around.

"Huh?"

_Wait. What just happened?_

*****END FLASHBACK*****

**Saturday, June 23, 1979**

"That's priceless!" She roars with laughter. "Only you would get engaged by accident."

"I don't see anything funny about this," I grumble.

"Oh you wouldn't but I do. Seth … oh my God … Seth …" she gasps and tries not to laugh, "He thought you were saying yes to his proposal, but you were actually answering Jessie."

"This isn't funny, Rosaline Suhavey."

"Oh, someone's testy," she howls. "Why didn't you set him straight then?"

"I didn't have the heart to. He realized something was up with me after my third stupid, 'huh'.

So, I lied like any loving girlfriend would. I told him yes. He was ecstatic. I was nauseous when I saw the crater-size, behemoth of a ring he shoved onto my finger. But I stopped him. I told him I wasn't going to wear it until we made it official to our parents, and now it's on my gold chain that I wear.

"Priceless!" she repeats jokingly.

"You're supposed to be my friend. Help me out here."

_Right now I am seriously considering taking her off the best friend list._

"Girl, you've got this in the bag. Trust your heart and forget what your head tells you!"

"What kind of dumb …" I look up and stare straight into the eyes of the man that has me on pins and needles. "Listen, I … I have to run."

"Oh …" she chuckles, "He's there, isn't he?"

"You know, I used to think your _Rosie _laugh was cute," I hiss, "but now, it's annoying as shit like you are!" I slam down the phone ending our useless call.

"Ms. Swan, a word," he demands.

_Damn, he looks good. You're pathetic Izzy, engaged to anothe__r,__and here sniffing the air of someone ..._

I don't even realize how he got around the podium so quickly, but he's now in front of me, and the anger emanating from his pores is enough to blow away anything in its path. He approaches me slowly and backs me up against the wall. I'm trapped between a rock and a hard place, literally.

"And just who is engaged here?" He questions menacingly.

"The thing is …"

There must be a God because as I'm scrambling for what next to say, my guardian angel in the personhood of Jessie enters the area where we're squaring off.

"Congratulations, Izzy. Seth is a lucky man. I'll see you tomorrow," she announces.

_Okay God obviously doesn't like me and has a funny sense of humo__r. And, just for the record, __Jessie is __not__ my guardian angel! She's just dug my grave that much deeper._

He whips his head at her departing figure and then slowly faces me. His eyes are the darkest green I've ever seen them.

"Why didn't you tell me you were engaged?" he spits out.

"Sit on it, Cullen!" I shove his chest, but of course my wimpy push does nothing to move him out of my way. "You didn't give me much chance to open my mouth ..."

"You had _all_ night, and you never breathed a word about engagement," he scolds.

"I was going ..."

He steps toward me and now I'm craning my neck to see his eyes. He stares into mine,and whatever he sees there must satisfy him.

He dips his head down and kisses my exposed neck. I _may_ have moaned_ just a smidgen_.

Pushing my head gently to the side, he whispers, "And how exactly are you engaged when you and I have only begun, Isabella?"

It's this same whispering that got me in trouble three days ago_._

*****FLASHBACK — Wednesday, June 20, 1979*****

My shift ended hours ago but here I stand waiting on him. Right after my 'engagement' to Seth this morning, I'd come back to Mr. Cicero begging for time off. I couldn't deal with customers, and the huge ring dangling from my chain that felt like a noose around my neck. Blessedly, he'd given me the rest of the morning off.

I'm surprised I wasn't pulled over for speeding as I drove home.

_What the hell am I doing?_

Right now, I'm breathlessly anticipating the arrival of a man that is _not_ my fiancé even with said fiancé's ring around my neck. Remembering the chain, I yank it off and throw it into my bag. Today is a special day, no need to ruin it before it begins. That's what would happen if Cullen sees the ring.

_I'm not going to question why his reaction about my engagement matters to me,_ I think silently_. _

We are just friends.

We are just friends.

I rehearse the mantra to myself that I've told Seth a million times.

Since Mother's day, Cullen comes to the restaurant daily. At first I ignored him, but, he kept on talking to me even when I was dealing with customers. The customers didn't seem to mind his interruptions, and some actually pled his case after he'd left the restaurant. By the end of the first week, he had me smiling at his corny jokes. By the end of week three, I was responding in full sentences rather than the grunts I'd given him during week two.

Now, six weeks later, we've picked up where our last fateful letter, back in July 1976, had ended. Granted, we have not spoken about the events of the night he got shot or anything that transpired between then, and the night we'd seen each other at Club Jenny back in July 1978. But, I'd say we were on our way toward _something_. What exactly that something is I'm not sure.

I glance at my watch and see it's a little bit before 7pm. He usually comes in here on Wednesdays in about one, two, three ...

He pushes the door open, and I see him mouth something like, "Goddamn write-up Wednesdays."

His eyes are downward, and he has not looked at me as yet.

"Ms. Swan." He grins the classic Cullen grin that makes my heart go pitter-patter. "The woman that makes my heart go …" He pauses as his eyes see my outstretched hands.

In my hand is a small, white box with a red bow. It took me two hours to get the bow perfectly looped.

"Happy birthday."

He points to his chest. "This … this," he coughs, "Is for me?"

"You know another Cullen whose birthday is today?" I joke.

He takes the last couple of steps toward me.

I thrust the gift at him because he did not look as if he had any intention of taking it from me.

Instinctually, he grabs the gift as my hands let it go.

"It's no big deal."

"Oh, it's a big deal, a very big deal indeed."

He shakes the box like a little kid. The box remains quiet not revealing its contents. I'd made sure to secure the revolver-shaped cufflinks in a position that he would have to open it to see what I'd gotten him.

"Aren't you going to …"

He carefully tugs at the bow.

_Maybe he realizes how long it took me to get it right?_

Then, he breaks the sealed box. Taking out the few pieces of gift paper, I see his long, lean fingers reach their goal. He takes out a cufflink, holds up to the light and twirls it between his thumb and forefinger. He has an _almost_ reverent expression as he looks at the cufflink then back to me. The look on his face is something I've never seen on him before. It's _almost_ humbled.

He puts the cufflink back into the box, and then, he puts the bow and box into his jacket pocket.

"Thank you. You're the first person in a long while, that's given me anything," he confesses.

_And now, I'm humbled_.

"Like I said it's no big …" I begin to lie but instead choose to reveal my true feelings. "It was my pleasure." I crack a smile at the grin on his face.

"You know what I think?"

"I have no clue what you could be thinking at this very second," I chuckle.

"I think it's time for celebrating. Let me take you to Crescent Lake West," he tells me excitedly.

"Are you nuts?" I yell at him.

Crescent Lake West is the premier, authentic,Chinese restaurant that opened in Ironshoreland about three weeks ago.

_I've heard their reservation list was at least a year's wait._

Cullen laughs, which means I've once again spoken my internal thoughts aloud.

"Don't worry about us getting in. I know a guy who knows a guy. We're going," he announces.

"Cullen ..."

"Ms. Swan, it's settled."

"I can't. I only wanted to give you your gift, and now I have to …"

"Isabella, please."

My name rolls off his silk-like tongue smoothly as if it belongs there.

"I've got to go ..." I crane my neck looking at the exit over his shoulders.

"Please," he begs.

_Damn._

"Okay. But we're only having dinner. Then, I'm going home."

"I'll do as you tell me to do."

I'm not sure I like how he phrased that statement.

And, because obviously I'm a shitty fiancée who'd still do anything to remain in another man's presence, I go with him. We have a really good time. We only talk about safe topicslike his job; my upcoming enrollment in October to Kingington Teacher's College; Em; and my mother. But there's also laughter and the easiest conversation I've ever had with the opposite gender.

The familiar piano chords of _You Really Got a Hold on Me_ by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles interrupt our laughter.

He stands.

_Now what is he doing?_

He extends his hand in my direction.

_Oh, hell no._

"Let's dance."

"No one else is dancing," I whisper in embarrassment.

"Let's dance, Isabella," he commands.

I take his hand, and he clutches me tightly to his body as Smokey Robinson sings. I hide my face in his neck and inhale his smell. It makes me heady, and my inhibitions float out the window with his next words.

"I love having you in my arms," he tells me as his hands grip my waist.

I feel his hardness, and I see the desire that's darkened his eyes. And I come to a decision that there are many things in my life that I'm not sure about, but there is _one_ thing I'm certain of, in this particular moment. I am tired of fighting my feelings for him. As the singers' voices harmonize, I stare deeply into Cullen's hypnotic eyes and repeat the words to him.

As the songs ends, I tangle my hands in his hair, pulling his face closer to mine. "Take me to your house."

"Do you know what you're saying, Isabella?" he whispers into my ear.

"Take me to your house," I repeat as I angle my head for him to kiss me.

"Once I take you to my home … in my bed, there's no turning back," he states, looking me intently in my eyes as he then proceeds to kiss me.

*****END FLASHBACK*****

And with those five words, we left the restaurant.

And I have not been the same.

I thought he had a hold on me before that night, but I was mistaken. That night, he further cemented his place in my head, heart, and soul.

I see no one but him.

I am engaged to Seth, but all I can envision is Cullen's face waiting for me down the aisle.

_You really got a hold on me, Cullen. _

_Damn!_

**1970s terms [1] used in this chapter**

sit on it - popularized by Happy Days TV show, means shut up or go to hell or any other exasperated expression

[1] www . inthe70s generated / terms . shtml

**A/N:**

I am such a poor authoress, I neglected to extend my sincerest thanks to my beta, Ms. Sunflower Fran (her Facebook name), at the end of chapter 16. I take this moment to give her a headnod à la The Songs of Our Lives' character Cullen.

As usual, please visit the blog luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for chapter title songs, looks and much more, and I hope you've all considered joining the Facebook page (link is on my profile page.) I am also re-constructing the blog, so you'll only see the most updated chapter there.

Fics that I'm reading with great joy whose updates have me squealing like a true fangirl:

Mobward fics _Where I Belong _by cravingMOREplz, _Dancing with the Devil_ by _,_ _Second to No One_ by lilmissweetsin2380, and

Criminalward in _Dirty South Drug War_s written brilliantly by my sister from another mother, Hoodfabulous.


	19. Chapter 18

Shout-out to the first three reviewers of Chapter 17: debslmac, Eduardiana, and cullenmeadow. To everyone that's reviewed, followed, and favored _The Songs of Our Lives_, welcome and my heartfelt appreciation.

Chapter 18 ~ Seasons in the Sun (by Terry Jacks)

Goodbye to you, my trusted friend

We've known each other since we were nine or ten

Together we climbed hills and trees

Learned of love and ABC's

Skinned our hearts and skinned our knees

Goodbye, my friend, it's hard to die

When all the birds are singing in the sky

Now that the spring is in the air

Pretty girls are everywhere

Think of me and I'll be there

We had joy, we had fun

We had seasons in the sun

But the hills that we climbed were just seasons

Out of time

Goodbye Papa, please pray for me

I was the black sheep of the family

You tried to teach me right from wrong

Too much wine and too much song

Wonder how I got along

Goodbye Papa, it's hard to die

When all the birds are singing in the sky

Now that the spring is in the air

Little children everywhere

When you see them I'll be there

We had joy, we had fun

We had seasons in the sun

But the wine and the song like the seasons

Have all gone

We had joy, we had fun

We had seasons in the sun

But the wine and the song like the seasons

Have all gone

Goodbye Michelle, my little one

You gave me love and helped me find the sun

And every time that I was down

You would always come around

And get my feet back on the ground

Goodbye Michelle, it's hard to die

When all the birds are singing in the sky

Now that the spring is in the air

With the flowers everywhere

I wish that we could both be there

We had joy, we had fun

We had seasons in the sun

But the stars we could reach

We're just starfish on the beach

We had joy, we had fun

We had seasons in the sun

But the stars we could reach

We're just starfish on the beach

We had joy we had fun

We had seasons in the sun

But the wine and the song like the seasons

Have all gone

All our lives we had fun

We had seasons in the sun

But the hills that we climbed were just seasons

Out of time

We had joy, we had fun

We had seasons in the sun

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Seasons in the Sun _are owned by its songwriters. I've taken some creative license with a police funeral procession. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Saturday, June 30, 1979**

"Okay on my count. One, two, three ... lift," Captain Luger commands.

Lifting up, we place the casket on the gurney the funeral home provided and wheel it toward the open ground. _I still can't believe __he's__ gone. _I look down at the American flag covering Bent's casket and I feel myself tearing up.

"We'll take it from here officers," one of the funeral home professional tells us.

The rest of the pall bearers and I reluctantly release our hold on the casket handles so Bent's body could be lowered into the ground. I stop in front of Ms. Warris, who looks as if she's not stopped crying since last Sunday, and gently kiss her cheeks. Standing, I notice Tanya's scandalous, red dress and shake my head at her. As I pass by her, I squeeze her hand as a way to comfort her.

On this overcast Saturday, all of #13 Mobayaton Police Department is here to see our fallen brother, Luke Warris, be laid to rest. I shake my head in disbelief again that Bent, _my_ Bent, is gone. I'll never ride in CW's Own with him anymore. I'll never meet up with him at Club Jenny or Lounge 57. I'll never be able to con him into filling out my paperwork on Write-up Wednesdays.

I need to be by myself for a moment, so I walk away from the throng of people around Bent's burial site. I lean my back on a tree and slap my leg with my police hat in frustration.

"Bent, you're really gone, aren't you?"

"Yes, he is."

Her voice has a sad overtone, and I don't have to look to know who it is. I'd know that voice anywhere.

"So … you came."

"I'm so sorry, Cullen," she says regretfully.

"Me too. Me too, Ms. Swan."

"Um …"

I hear the question in her hesitation and I guess her desire for details. "Heart attack. He was to take Ms. Warris to church and … um, he never woke." I inhale deeply through my nostrils. "The doctors say it was a heart attack." I repeat.

She walks from behind me and we stand side by side under the tree. As they begin to lower Bent's body into the ground, it's hard for me tobelieve what I'm seeing. I rub my eyes hoping that I'll wake up from this nightmare and Bent and I will have a good laugh about how I was a pallbearer at his funeral.

_No, that didn't work because they are still lowering his gray casket into the goddamn ground._

I feel her hand grasp my fingers hesitantly. I don't need a shaky hold, so I firmly grab her hand and lock our fingers together.

"Unto Almighty God, we commend the soul of our departed brother, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ..." the reverend states.

_I feel like I'm going to throw up_.

My breathing speeds up the more the reverend recites the prayer. With my other hand, I clutch my throat and attempt to unfasten the top button of my uniform. I'm much too concerned about my lack of oxygen to complain when she pries her hand loose from my death grip. She doesn't leave my hand for too long as she loosely entwines our fingers and uses her thumb to rub my palm. Somehow this does the trick. The rush of oxygen that _finally_ makes its way into my lungs is a godsend.

"Thanks," I mutter.

"No problem."

I see Ms. Warris stand up and throw a rose on top of Bent's casket. Tanya repeats the action.

"Come with me to Ms. Warris' place," I demand.

"Um … I really shouldn't …"

I choke out her name in desperation, silently begging her. I'm abruptly engulfed in a tight hug that I didn't know I needed. Even in heels, I still tower over her. I feel her fumbling with my shirt collar, so I bend my head toward her. With my head lowered, she rubs the nape of my neck and massages my shoulder blades.

I sigh in relief. "You know _exactly_ what I need." I pull my head back and look down at her. More softly, I ask, "will you come with me, please?"

Her brown eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and just as one trails down her cheek, I wipe it away.

_I'll never tell her this, but I know I could look into her eyes forever and always be surprised by the emotions they express._

She silently agrees with a nod of the head.

As the bulk of the well-wishers begin to leave I tug her behind me so that we are standing behind Ms. Warris and Tanya, who are still seated. The four of us continue watching the two groundskeepers as they continue to throw dirt over Bent's casket. I'm not sure how much longer we stand there but eventually I feel Tanya's and Ms. Warris' heart-twisting pain through their wails. As Bent is cemented into his final resting place, their cries pierce the morning air as the sun pokes its head through the clouds.

**A few hours later ...**

"This song is dedicated to Ms. Warris and Tee. All of #13 Mobayton Police Department mourn with you," DJ Willy Will states.

Terry Jacks' version of _Season in the Sun_ comes on. Not wanting to hear another song about loss when we've only buried my friend a few hours ago, I turn the radio off quickly.

"Thanks for coming today," I murmur, pulling to a stop in front of her house.

She uses her left hand to wipe her brow. "No problem. I hope ..."

Whatever else comes out of her mouth, I can't speak to because my eyes are locked on the shiny, foreign object that's on her ring finger.

_I thought we'd discuss this? _

She can't be engaged because she and I had only started, again. The fact that we are not in a committed relationship is _only _small hiccup that's easily rectifiable, at least to me.

"Cullen, did you hear me?"

"What the hell is that?" I point to her hand that's lying in her lap.

Instantly, she uses her other hand to cover the ring as if that's going to erase what I saw a moment ago_._

"Um ..."

"Are you trying to kill me?" I point to my chest.

"No … no, never." The words tumble from her lips in a rush.

"Then why are you wearing—"

She lets out a breath exasperatedly. "I am engaged to Seth."

_As if that matters to me!_

"Didn't I tell you not to goddamn mention another man's name in my presence?"I bark out.

I open the car door and slam it shut behind me. Being in the same small place with her, I was liable to put my hands around her throat to _squeeze_ some sense into her. I walk to the back of the car and perch my hip on the trunk. Looking up at the sky, I realize it's getting cloudy again as it had during Bent's funeral. As I think about his name, and the stupidity she just told me, my stomach does a weird flip-flop.

"Damn it! Why can't things _ever_ go my way?" I shout to the sky.

"I'm sorry …" she mutters off to the side.

Slowly, I walk toward where she is on the sidewalk and stand in front of her. I tip her head back a little bit to see her eyes. She's biting on the corner of her bottom lip, and I tug it out with my thumb and caress the spot. Using my thumb and forefinger, I tip her chin back, forcing her head backward some more. I can see her beautiful, amber eyes, and the longer we stare at each other the more I realize I don't know her.

I thought I did, but no, I really don't know her.

"I'm fighting for something you don't want, aren't I?"

"That's—"

"You've been telling me since you got back from Cary, but I've just been too stupid to hear you."

I feel like an idiot for not chasingher all this time. Maybe I've done too much to her for her to forgive me. Sure, she'd shared her body with me on my birthday ten days ago. But, apparently _that _didn't mean much to her.

"It's not—"

"I can't do this with you today, Isabella."

"Please—"

"I don't …" My voice catches in my throat. "I don't have any strength left today."

"Let me—"

I hold up my hand, "It's … it's … you have a … I'm not even sure what the hell I want to say to you right now."

"I'm sor—"

_If she finishes that statement, I am going to blow a gasket!_

"Shove that sorry up your fiancé's ass!" I tell her angrily.

_When she and I were making love, her 'fiancé' didn't exist, and now all of a sudden, he's a factor. Bullshit!_ I fume internally.

Shaking my head in resignation, I back away from her, walking around to the driver side. Not caring of the speed limit, I peel away from the curb. A little down the road, I slow down my car and look in the rearview mirror. She's still standing in the same spot. I push the gas pedal a little harder so I can no longer see her.

_I really thought she would become mine one day ... _

**Friday, July 20, 1979**

"Tanya, let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere until I'm good and ready," she slightly slurs.

Jay, Lounge 57's owner, called me at the station and told me that Tanya was here _again_. Since Bent's funeral, I've come either here or Club Jenny to collect her more times than I can remember. I usually get a call when she'd had one too many drinks.

I groan out loud. Then an idea pops in my head. "Okay, we'll grab a table then?"

She swivels in the chair with a mischievous smile. "Come to take care of your 'little sister'?"

Two weeks ago, when I'd picked her up from Club Jenny, she'd kissed me as I was bending to take her out of my car. I let her kiss me, but when she felt that I wasn't responding, she'd stopped. I told her that she and I could never have anything because I'll only see her as my little sister.

"Come on, Tanya."

I walk us over to a table that usually seats four. A server comes over to us promptly. I order a Heineken® for myself and a glass of water for Tanya.

_Hopefully, that'll sober up her ass_.

"I'm not a child, Edward," she huffs.

"No? Well, that's what you've been acting like since Bent died."

She puts her hand to her throat, and she sniffs.

_I feel like an asshole now._

Tears stream down her face. "You don't know what it's like for me."

I hand her my handkerchief. "Wipe your face. You're ruining your makeup, beautiful."

She smiles through her tears at the nickname._ Well, at least she's smiling now_.

She pats at her eyes and slowly wipes her cheeks. "Thanks." She hands me back the handkerchief.

"No, you keep it."

The waiter returns with our drink order and inquires about our dinner choices. I order a medium rear steak with potatoes, and Tanya orders a chef's salad.

"A girl has to watch her figure, you know," she tells me with a wink.

"I'll never understand you women," I mumble.

We eat our meal and have a pleasant conversation, which I didn't think was possible. In another place, and at another time—_if_ I'd never met Ms. Swan—_maybe,_ I would have gone after Tanya. I'm honest enough to admit it. She is an attractive woman. But, Bent's ghost would haunt me for the rest of my life when Tanya and I ended—which would be a definite since I see no one in my life but Ms. Swan.

At the end our meal, Tanya seems as sober as she's going to get and I am ready to end the night. However, _her_ smell tells me she's nearby. A tall, tan-skinned man is dragging her over to where Tanya and I are sitting. The man shoves his hand in my face and reluctantly, I grip it ... _hard_, then I shake it … _firmly_. To my disgust, he doesn't wince, not even a little bit.

_Damn!_

"You must be Officer Cullen. Bella talks about her friend constantly."

_Bella … if he was any kind of fiancé, he'd know she hates being called Bella._

The way he says friend, I know he knows more than he's letting on about me and his affianced. His 'friendly' stare shifts to a full-on glare as he takes me in. I look him over, and I snidely conclude that he's a watered down version of me.

I know he's in the army, about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, and is stationed more than five hours away at Ft. Drum, New York. A couple months ago, I made sure to learn as much as I could about my competition if you can consider him that. You know what they say: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The only things I see common between us is: our height—I have a few inches on him though—and we both want Ms. Swan _all to ourselves_.

Ms. Swan's face turns the color of a ripe tomato. It extends to her exposed, creamy neck. The contrast between her face and neck and the powder blue dress she's wearing is very becoming.

_Damn, she looks mouth-watering_. _So she's talked about her __'friend'__ to her chump of a fiancé, has she?_

Since I have nothing but time on my hands, I decide to have a little fun.

"Pull up a seat and join us," I request with forced enthusiasm.

Both Tanya and Ms. Swan groan.

"Oh, no, we couldn't—" she begins to say.

"Edward, why in the ..." Tanya interrupts, but shuts up when she sees the determination on my face.

Both the chump and I ignore them. He's forced to seat Ms. Swan beside me since Tanya was already sitting in front of me. I inhale her scent on the sly. He sits beside Tanya. We both continue to size each other up, and the tension that's emanating from the table is palpable. Our stare-off competition is interrupted when the server comes over for our drink orders.

"A Singapore Sling," Ms. Swan hastily requests.

"A White Russian for me," Tanya orders.

"Tom Collins," chump man says briskly.

I ask for a Rusty Nail because I have a feeling that whatever is about to take place is going to be like a rusty nail shoved up the beds of my fingernails. _A painful-sounding drink for whatever painful shit is about to take place _is the thought that runs through my head. The server returns with our drinks and we each take a sip of our orders lost in our private thoughts.

I'm in an asshole-type of a mood so what I'm about to say, don't hold it against me, okay?

"So, I hear congratulations are in order."

He beams, she chokes on her drink, and Tanya looks on speculatively.

"Yes," he replies confidently.

"Congratulations," Tanya announces with a wide smile.

"Yeah … thanks," Ms. Swan whispers.

Putting down her drink, she lays her hand on top of the table and chump man grips it. I'm starting to think this 'game' is not such a good idea.

Ms. Swan quickly withdraws her hand from his, and slowly, I drape my hand casually around her chair. _Two can play this game, dickhead._

Tanya breaks the silence. "When's the happy occasion?"

"Ah—"

Chump man interrupts _my_ girl. "Next year, we hope. Have to wait for Isabella," he grabs her hand again, "To finish school."

Discreetly, she tries to tug her hand away again, but he tightens his hold. _I still have my 20/10 vision, allowing me to see even the things people think I won't._ She chugs her drink. Being this close to her is food for my soul. So, I block out the fact that someone else is holding _my _girl's hand and turn my body slightly toward hers, taking her gorgeous side profile. I haven't seen her since Bent's funeral. Her rejection was too much, so I've stopped going by the restaurant to see her.

"That's wonderful. A summer wedding," Tanya gushes.

I ask the most pertinent question, at least to me. "So what are you going to do while she's away at college?"

"I leave for San Bernardino tonight which is why we're out celebrating." He rubs the back of her hand.

I flex the fingers that are around her seat, gripping the back of the chair ever so slightly. I see that Tanya notices the move, and if I cared about how the placement of my hand looks to an outsider, I'd move it … but I could give a fuck! Tanya's eyes shift between my face and Ms. Swan's with more interest than before.

"Oh … you're the girl from Club Jenny!" Tanya snaps her fingers as recognition lights up her face.

"Excuse me. I have … um, I have to use the bathroom," she mumbles, before pushing her chair away from the table and hurriedly leaves.

"What the—" chump man stutters.

"I saw you guys about a year ago at Club Jenny." I shrug my shoulder, telling him matter-of-factly.

He and I get up at the same time. We're both alpha males and very territorial over what we consider _ours_. This makes it useless for either one of us to ask the other to sit. We are both intent upon doing what we want.

"I'll go see—"

Interrupting him, I tell the table, "I'm going to see about ..."

Tanya's head whips back and forth between the two of us realizing that blows are likely to be thrown in a short while.

"Boys, settle down. I'll go see if she's okay." She tsks as she stands and heads in the direction Isabella fled to.

We slowly lower ourselves to our chairs simultaneously.

"So, you're not really a friend, are you?"

I don't respond to his asinine question and instead take a drink. A few minutes later, Tanya is helping my girl back to the table, and she looks a little green around the gills.

"Isabella, are you alright?" I rush to her.

"I'm fine," she spits out at me.

_Whoa. What's with her?_

She walks around me and heads toward chump man. Lowering her head, she whispers something, and I see him nod and then rise. Tanya and I walk back over the table as Isabella gathers her purse from the table. He puts his hand on her lower back, and I seethe silently. Isabella stomps her foot which takes my attention away from where his hands are and I look in her eyes. They plead with me for something elusive, but for what I don't understand.

"We'll be going, then. It was a pleasure meeting you both," chump man says, leading her away from the table.

Isabella turns her head slightly as she tries to see behind her ... to see me, I hope. I see a small tear escape the corner of her right eye before she quickly turns her head forward again.

_Why the hell is she crying? She's the one with a fiancé here!_

I snap my fingers and right away our server comes back. "Another Rusty Nail and keep 'em coming, my good man."

"So, she's not a friend, is she, Edward?"

Another dumb question that I don't answer as the waiter comes over with a new drink. Smiling, I tip back the contents in my mouth.

Many drinks but only a short while later, I feel Tanya stop jerkily in front of my apartment complex. We both lean heavily on each other, making our way up to my second floor apartment. As I fish my keys from my pocket, I tumble forward, but her soft, warm hands break my fall.

_If this door would stay still ..._

"Here, let me."

"Sure," I mutter.

Finally, we get inside, and I plop down on something soft.

"I miss my friend."

_Maybe I should have stopped after my fourth __Rusty Nail._

"Me too."

I feel her tug at my shoes. They drop loudly on the floor and I wish she'd be mindful of the pounding headache I have.

"Tanya, you know there are two of you?" Even to my own ears, my words sound jumbled.

I hear a chuckle, and I shut my eyes to stop the floating images in front of me.

Hiccup. "Can you believe … um, the Chump she's marrying?"

Hiccup.

"Nope."

"I'm so hot."

I think she says "that you are" but I can't be a hundred percent sure because right now my normally good hearing is worth shit.

She sits me up and helps me shrug off my jacket.

_Much better._

"She'd," Hiccup. " … be with him than me."

_Wait, that makes no sense! What the hell did they put in those Rusty Nails?_

She helps me take something else off and I'm much cooler now in my ribbed-tank.

"She sounds like a stupid bitch to me."

I feel her breath on my face, and the feeling of being pushed backward as she straddles me.

"No, not_my_ Isabella." I squeeze her face in my hand, forcing her to look at me. "She's sweet, sexy, and smart. Way too smart …"

"Edward! Edward, wake up." I feel a light slap on my face.

"What was I saying?" I slur.

"She's something or another." She waves her hand dismissively, I think.

"Yeah, my girl is too smart to be with a good-for-nothing like me," I slur, revealing my dreaded fear.

"Edward". Peck. "I". Peck. "Want". Peck. "You, so much."

I stop her lips from kissing me again, holding her face in my palm. I push some hair off her forehead and try to focus. I finger a few strands of her hair and I realize it's nowhere close to my girl's own silky tresses. Also, she smells different … not in a bad way, but her scent doesn't tantalize my senses or libido like my girl's. But the golden hue … now that, _in this light_ and _in this moment_, reminds me so much like my girl's.

_I miss my Isabella_.

I'm so tired … my eyes keep closing. _If only I go to sleep with my girl ... my at last one more time._

"Isa—"

Soft lips hungrily crash onto mine … and …

**A/N:**

If you've ever worked with my beta, you know she's one smart cookie. I wish I had more than these meager words to express to her my thanks for _all _the help she's given to me. Her name is SunflowerFran3759; PM her and show her some appreciation for her tireless work on beautifying _The Songs of Our Lives _for each of you.

Next chapter, I will end the brief shout-outs at the beginning of each chapter.

Remember to check out the blog luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for chapter title songs, looks and much more. Don't forget to check me out on Facebook (link is on my profile).


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter 19 ~ Don't Nobody Bring Me No Bad News (by Evilene [1] and the Winkies)

When I wake up in the afternoon

Which it pleases me to do

Don't nobody bring me no bad news

'Cause I wake up already negative

And I've wired up my fuse

So don't nobody bring me no bad news

If we're going to be buddies

Better bone up on the rules

'Cause don't nobody bring me no bad news

You can be my best of friends

As opposed to payin' dues

But don't nobody bring me no bad news

No bad news

No bad news

Don't you ever bring me no bad news

'Cause I'll make you an offer, child

That you cannot refuse

So don't nobody bring me no bad news

When you're talking to me

Don't be cryin' the blues

'Cause don't nobody bring me no bad news

You can verbalize and vocalize

But just bring me the clues

But don't nobody bring me no bad news

Bring some message in your head

Or in something you can't lose

But don't you ever bring me no bad news

If you're gonna bring me something

Bring me, something I can use

But don't you bring me no bad news

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Don't Nobody Bring Me No Bad News _are owned by its songwriters. The characters from _The Wiz _belong to its rightful owners. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Late morning on Thursday, September 13, 1979**

Well, happy nineteenth birthday to you, Izzy!

As with my last birthday, _this_ birthday is turning into another massive conundrum.

I'm momentarily distracted by my television set. On the screen, coming down the aisle, is the rotund Evilene singing _Don't Nobody Bring Me No Bad News_, which is one of my favorite part in the movie, _The Wiz_. As she ends the song, I hope I don't have bad news myself as I look down at my hands.

_Maybe, I missed a __step, and__ this is why I'm getting this result_ I silently hope against hope.

I grab the Wampole two-hour pregnancy box and its directions from my bed and read them again. Flinging those down, I go through the instruction for the other two pregnancy tests.The more I re-read them, the clearer it becomes that I _did_ follow the instructions.

Three different tests tell me the same news: I'm pregnant.

Lying back on my bed, I weigh my options. _I have until October 1__st__ before classes begin at Kingington Teacher's College. There's enough time to call Dr. Green, set up an appointment and ..._

The unrelenting knocks disrupt thoughts.

"May I come in?" she asks as she turns the doorknob.

Jumping quickly to my feet, I try to stuff everything under my pillow. Instead, I sway back onto my bed as a case of nausea hits me.

"Izzy, it's time for …" she begins to say, but noticing me on the bed, she asks, "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Noth ..." I mumble out before I make a mad dash for my bathroom and empty the contents of this morning's celebratory meal into the toilet.

I hear footsteps pad further into my room, but I'm too busy blinking the tears away from my eyes, so I don't miss the toilet. The more I smell the remnants from my meal, the greater the urge to throw up again. Flushing the toilet, I attempt to stand but can't quite get to my feet. From my position on the floor, I see that her feet are crossed at the ankles and further up, I notice her arms crossed over her torso. There's a triumphant look on her face.

"So, Miss Goody Two Shoes is knocked up?"

Rising to my feet, I gingerly walk to my sink and wash my hands. I walk past her and head to the door hoping she gets the hint.

She walks toward the opened door with a sneer on her face. "I just hope you know who the father is."

Slamming the door, I groan. Goddamn Jane.

I am so screwed!

**Early afternoon on Thursday, September 13, 1979**

"I'd like to make an appointment to see Dr. Green," I request, strumming my fingers on my window pane.

_Today would be a lovely day if __it wasn't__ for this thing lodged in my womb! Ugh._

"And you are?"

"Isabella Swan," I mention impatiently.

"The next available appointment is September twenty-seventh."

"There's nothing sooner?" I inquire hopefully.

_I doubt she'll be able to examine me, run the needed tests, and __perform the surgery on the same day._ I nibble on my nail as I wait for an answer. Praying something goes right for me—after all, _it_ is my birthday!

"Let me check."

_Come on. Come on. Please have an earlier date. Please._

"You're in luck. I have a cancellation for tomorrow. Do you want that one? It's at 10am."

Loudly, I rush out, "Yes!"

"Okay, we'll see you then."

I hear a knock at my door.

"Who is it?"

Not wanting to have a repeat of Jane's early morning visit, I'd locked my door after she'd left.

"It's me, Baby."

Hearing my mother's voice, I walk to open the door. She comes in and I walk back to the window, looking at the view of the garden. _It really looks to be a wonderful day._

"Izzy, what's the matter with you today?"

"Nothing, Mom," I assure her.

"I'm your mother. Don't you think I know when something is off with my kids?"

I don't know what to say, so I remain silent. From my periphery, I see her sitting on the edge of the bed, indicating for me to sit with her.

"Mom, I don't want to sit."

But her silence tells me that she's in no mood to hear what I've said.

I walk over, sit beside her and angle my head away from her. "There's nothing going on."

"Then why aren't you hanging out with your friends? Why are you home? It's your birthday, for goodness sake!"

"I don't—"

Her upheld hand stops my train of thought. "Okay. You don't want to hang out with your friends. Why aren't you taking Seth's calls then?"

"Really, it's nothing."

"You would think a fiancée would relish a birthday call from her fiancé," she demands sarcasm lacing her statement.

"Seth and I ... well, we're going through a rough patch right now because he's so far away, is all."

"Rough patch, you guys have only been engaged a couple of months."

"Don't worry about it. We'll be fine."

"Izzy, you've not been fine since you left Portsmore Academy. What's the matter, honey?" she begs.

My mother's eyes tell me of her desire to help me. But, how can she help me feel better about myself after cheating on Seth with Cullen? As Cullen's name pops in my mind, I think about the _thing_ lodged in my womb. It has the potential to keep me from my dream of becoming a teacher. If I don't act quickly, it could also be another fodder for the gossip mongers around here. _There goes Isabella Swan, the good-for-nothing trash that used to be with __Jetpup,__ but is now knocked up by someone who isn't even her fiancé_ is probably what they'll say I contemplate internally.

And because I've created this mess of a situation with Cullen _and_ Seth, I lie. It's much better than the sad truth. "Mom, I want to spend a quiet day at home."

"But, Izzy—"

"Besides, I've only got a few more weeks here. You trying to get rid of me that quickly?" I ask teasingly, nudging her shoulder.

She pushes some hair behind my ear that has escaped from my ponytail. "I just want you to be happy. Are you happy?"

"Yes, Mom. I'm … I'm happy," I choke out.

She pats my hand and seems satisfied. "Well, that's good, baby. Dinner at eight?"

"Sure."

"And, Izzy, whatever is going on will rectify itself eventually, you'll see."

**Friday, September 14, 1979**

"Behind you is the gown you're to put on. Open part goes to the back. Dr. Green will be with you shortly."

I've been coming to Green & Associates since my first period about five years ago. Dr. Green is the county's best gynecologist, and she's one of only two doctors in Upper Salem who perform abortions.

"Isabella, so good to see you." She comes in with a smile on her face and a manila folder in her hand.

I sit on the exam table and fiddle with the gown's worn edges. "It's good to see you too, doc," I respond.

She opens the folder and is quiet as she flips through some pages. "Everything seems to be in order. You've already had your annual visit. So why are you here today?"

"I …" I blow out a breath. "IthinkI'mpregnant," I ramble.

"What was that?"

I count to ten in my head before responding, "I think I'm pregnant."

"You think or you know?"

"Well, I took three tests but …"

"Okay, lie back and let's take a look. When was your last period?"

"Early June, I think."

"Uh huh." She finishes her pelvic exam and pats me on the shoulder to sit up. "Let's take some blood to confirm everything."

"Confirm? So, I'm …" I can't finish. I feel dizzy.

"I'm very certain, but the blood test will erase any doubt. I should have the results in about ten minutes. Go ahead and get dress, Isabella."

She takes some blood and leaves the room with the vial … my life in her hands.

Seconds turn into minutes, as the sweat begins to form under the pits of my arms, despite the frigid air from the building's air conditioner.

I glance at my watch and remember that it's broken.

_Shit_.

My eyes gravitate to the doorknob as it is being turned and I re-play Evilene's song in my head. _Don't nobody bring me no bad news!_

"Well, the test proves it, my dear. You are pregnant."

"Shit."

"That's not the response I thought I'd hear. This is good, no?"

"No, doc. Not good at all."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. By your pelvic, you're about three months along."

_Three months! _

"When can I schedule … um … to have this," I point to my stomach, "Taken care of?"

She pulls up an empty chair in front of me. "Ah, I see." She shakes her head. "You're too far along for that, Isabella."

"What do you mean?" I yell in frustration. "I came as soon as I figured it out. _You_ have to take this out! I _have_ to go to school by the first of the month."

"Okay, okay. Take a deep breath."

"I can't stay pregnant!"

_What the hell doesn't she understand?_

"I don't know what to tell you, but you will have to. It's not the end of the world." She pats my hand.

"You don't understand," I begin as I slide off the table thinking that she truly doesn't understand.

"I'll just go to the other …"

She halts my exit with her words. "Isabella, if you go to that _other_ doctor, _he_ will do it, But mark my words, you and the baby will die. That baby is too big," she advises forcefully.

"Huh?"

"I mean it, Isabella." She stands, smiling. "On your way out, make an appointment for next month."

"Okay."

I'm so close to tears that I hurry from the examination room and don't bother to stop at the front desk. I run down the hall and am glad to be outside. As the sun hits my face, I decide to go to the park. I should be able to think there. Sitting down, I begin to fume silently. _What the hell am I going to do?_ I'm lost in the million thoughts swirling around my head. Suddenly, there's a bended knee covered in navy blue before me.

"Earth to Isabella. Hello in there."

_Just my luck._

"Cullen?" I whisper, raising my eyes from the ground to his face.

"What's with the sad face?" he smiles tenderly.

"Oh … ah …" I muster to say before big, fat, sloppy tears run down my face.

_Not the ugly cry _I scream in my head. He gathers me in his arms awkwardly since he's still stooping.

"What's the matter? You're starting to scare me here."

"I …" More tears. They go on _and_ on _and_ on.

He stands us up and wipes my tears away. But as soon as one disappears, the next flows down.

"I'm taking you home."

I push at his chest. "No, I can't go home. This is …"

"Okay, my home. You want to come to my home?"

_I don't know what I want. _

_I want you to hold me. _

_I want you to make this go away. _

_I want—_

The motion of us moving interrupts my thoughts. I numbly follow him, still not registering much of what's going on.

As we pass an alleyway, it hits me. "I can't … I'm not going anywhere with you."

He groans. "Cut the shit, something's obviously wrong, and we can talk about it at my house."

I drag my foot, which forces him to stop. "No!"

Pulling me out of the sun and into the darkened alleyway, he backs me against the wall.

"What do you want? Because I'm tired of this back and forth bullshit with you … with us!"

"I don't want anything from you," I reply indignantly. _I can do this by myself without this idiot_.

He backs up a little away from me. His fingers comb through his hair distractedly. "What will you do by yourself, and who is the idiot?"

"You," I point at him, "You're the idiot."

"If you don't tell me what's going on, I won't know how to fix it." He seems like he's begging … like he's real interested in helping _me_.

"I shouldn't even be here," I grumble, turning my head away, "I'm engaged …"

I hear his footsteps on the loose gravel and feel his hot breath on my neck. "Engaged, smengaged… easily fixable—" he counters, forcing my head to face his direction.

"Edward …"

His eyes darken.

"You've never said my first name before. I like it. I like it a lot," he grins as he angles his head toward me.

"Hands up and empty your pockets."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Cullen quips, turning to face the newcomer.

"Gimme everything you have, fuzz. And I want ya girl's purse too."

I see Cullen's hands slowly reach toward his gun.

"Don't even think it, fuzz, or the girl gets it," another voice retorts.

I look to my right and stare into the barrel of a gun aimed at my head.

"Shit," Cullen mutters.

"Um …"

"Isabella, be quiet. These two gentlemen will leave as soon as we give them what they want, right?" Cullen insists.

"Yeah," spits out the one in front of us.

"Baby, give me your purse …" Cullen tells me.

"Slow. No funny business, bitch," snarls the one pointing a gun at me as he presses it firmly against my temple.

"Hey, buddy. I'm over here. You leave her out of this," Cullen states, pulling the seemingly trigger happy fellow's attention toward him.

"Yo, Carl … shit … man, shut up," the one in front tells the other pointing the gun at me. "Just gimme the shit." He motions to Cullen.

Behind him, I'm shaking like a leaf as I pull the strap handle from my shoulder and shove it at Cullen. _This is the day from hell_.

Cullen hands over his wallet, a gift box and my purse.

"Oh, yeah … and ya gun too," this from the trigger happy one.

"Carl," his accomplice groans out, stepping forward, and I see he has a switchblade. "That's not—"

"Shut up, you idiot and stop fucking calling my name," he swings the gun away from my head and point it at his accomplice. "I want the fuzz's gun."

"Okay, okay. Let's all calm down," Cullen requests, holding up both hands in the air. "No one needs to get hurt here."

"No one gets hurt if you give me your piece."

Slowly, Cullen unlatches his gun from his gun belt and hands it over. I clutch tighter to the back of his shirt. He looks over his shoulder at me and cracks his infamous Cullen smile, and I'm briefly comforted by it.

"Okay you got what you came for. Just go."

"I'll go when I'm good and ready."

The next few seconds are a blur. What I remember is the guy with the knife slinking back into the shadow while the guy with the gun snickers at us. He mumbles something in Cullen's ear as he presses the gun into Cullen's side and fires.

Next, I hear footsteps running away.

He crumples to the ground as a pool of blood gathers beneath him.

_Oh my God._

Looking down, I can't believe what's in front of me right now. Instantly, my brain goes on autopilot, and I rush out to the lighted path of the alleyway. I look around and spy a stationery store.

I barrel through the door. Panic is making my heart beat too fast.

"Help!" I scream, running up to the cashier. "You have to help me. My boyfriend's been shot."

The cashier hurriedly picks up a nearby phone.

"Tell them it's a cop. Officer Edward Cullen," I shout out over my shoulder as I speed out of the store.

My feet carry me back to the alley quicker than I know is possible for me, but I have no time to think about that. I rush over to where he is and I fidget nervously.

"Edward ... Edward, what should I do? I don't know what to do."

No response.

_There's so much blood. _

Kneeling, I put my hand on the open wound and pray that this will help.

"You stay with me Edward or so help me God, I'll kill you myself. I am not raising your kid by myself."

I see a ghost of a smile.

Encouraged I keep on talking. "Yeah, you bastard," I say, half-smiling even as tears stream onto my cheeks. "I'm pregnant. You like that don't you? You live to see your kid, okay?" I tell him as I hear sirens in the distance.

"I got you …"

"Edward," I screech. In my excitement, my bloody hand touches the side of his face. "I'm so glad you're awake."

"They took …" he says all breathy as he coughs, "Your gift."

"Shut up. Why are you talking?" I put my hand back to his side.

"I … want …"

"Shh, don't talk. Just stay with me, please," I begging, crying harder.

I'm not sure how long I kneel over him with my hands in his side, but I'm glad when I hear footsteps hurrying to where we are.

"Miss, you have to move."

"I can't … I can't … move," I whimper out.

"You don't move, and he will."

"Don't let him die, please," I murmur.

Hands … trained hands lift him onto the gurney and rush both of us into the back of the ambulance.

[1] Evilene and the Winkies are fictional characters from _The Wiz _released in 1978

**A/N:**

As usual, Sunflower Fran is the beta of all betas, in my humble esteem. I thank her for all her help. Check out the blog luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for chapter title songs, looks and much more.


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter 20 ~ Knockin' on Heaven's Door (by Bob Dylan)

Mama, take this badge off of me

I can't use it anymore.

It's gettin' dark, too dark to see

I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door.

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

Mama, put my guns in the ground

I can't shoot them anymore.

That long black cloud is comin' down

I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door.

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Knockin' on Heaven's Door _are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

Please consider going to the blog [ luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces)] to read the prelude posted there before you read any further.

**Date Unknown**

_Ah, this is the life_.

I'm currently somewhere between here and there. I have not figured out the precise location as yet. My eyes take in the beautiful ocean-view in front of me as my head mouths the words to the Bob Dylan classic _Knockin' on Heaven's Door _playing overhead.

I'm seated in a beach lounge chair with a refreshing glass of virginPiña Colada in my hand. It seems that's the only type of drink I can get here. I take a sip from my ice-cold drink.

_This really is the life._

I've yet to see the source that's playing the music I've been hearing, but I'm grateful for that music is being played since it's helping soothe my mounting concerns about thisplace. Yesterday, at least I think it was yesterday_, _I heard Funkadelic's crazy guitar playing in _Maggot Brain_. Strange things have been going on in the time I've been here.

Strange thing number one is I haven't seen anyone. In this idyllic setting, no one seems to exist here, with the exception of yours truly. There's no one to ask questions or simply talk with, to pass the time. Strange thing number two is how my thoughts—well, _some _of my thoughts—become an instantaneous reality. For instance, if I think of a place to sleep or something to eat, it appears.

I take another sip of my drink.

_I could really get used to this_ I think as I put my drink down.

Only things missing are Em and Isabella; if they were here I would happily stay forever. I did try to 'think' them here, but nothing happened. After about three more attempts, I assumed that wasn't going to happen.

The blazing sun beams down on me, and again, I wonder about my lack of tan. But, it's pretty impossible to get a tan when you can't take your clothes off. I've tried—trust me—but I'm still in my uniform that still stained red, with my blood, on the side. Underneath my shirt, I can feel the gunshot wound._ Now that's something I wish I __could__ 'think' away._ Lying back onto the lounge chair, I decide not to ponder anymore about this strange place with its weird rules. I flip down the sunglasses atop my head over my eyes.

MaybeI dozed for a few minutes, I'm honestly not sure, but after a while, I knew I was no longer alone. The hairs on my arm stood up and I got a prickly sense of being watched. Slowly, I push the glasses off my face and crack my eyes open.

In front of me is Momma.

"What are you doing?"

I sit further up, hoping she'd be able to answer the questions I've had. "Momma, it's so good to see some-damn-body here. But _where_ the hell is _this_?"

"Why are you here?"

"Didn't you hear me? I asked you a question."

_Maybe this place has affected her hearing_.

"You don't belong here."

"I don't even know where _here_ is," I groan in frustration.

"Edward Anthony Masen Cullen, you don't belong here. You have people that need you," she admonishes me as she walks back toward the ocean.

"Momma, wait," I beg, rising to my feet, "I don't know how to leave. You have to tell me how to leave."

The closer I attempt to get to her, the quicker her feet move to the ocean. _For an old lady, she sure moves faster than quicksand_ is the stray thought that enters my mind as I try to catch up to her_. _I stop following her when she disappears into the water.

_What the hell? _

_Where am I?_

"I've been sent to answer your questions."

I'm so startled that I would have fallen face down in the sand had the outstretched hands not stopped me. Pushing them off, I spin on my pivot quickly on the balls of my feet,to face the voice.

_Surely my eyes are deceiving me_.

"What the hell?"

"No, not quite hell. Four questions left," he laughs, sitting to face the ocean.

"What are you talking about four questions?"

"I can only answer five questions. Now, you have three left," he announces with a grin.

_Three questions left! Okay, think Cullen. Don't ask stupid questions_. "Why am I here?" I question angrily.

"Only you know the answer to that."

"What kind of vague, shitty answer is that? Forget it. That's not my question," I rush to tell him.

He smiles serenely, lifting his face upward as a gentle breeze comes from the water.

"Okay, hold on. Let me think," I mutter, raking my hand through my hair. "How do I leave here?"

"Only you know the answer to that."

He smiles at me. His eyes look hopeful that I'll eventually ask the right question.

And, finally I ask the something I've been most curious about, especially after seeing Momma and now, Bent.

"Am I … dead?" I croak.

He turns his head to me with a sad look in his eyes. "You will be soon if you don't leave here!"

"Damn."

We both look at the sun as it slowly lowers itself to meet the horizon. The vision before us is the most peaceful-looking and radiant sunset I've seen in a long time.

"You can't stay here."

Chuckling, I turn to him and notice for the first time that he has on his burial suit. "It's hard to leave a place like this," I admit, waving my hand in front of us.

"It's easier here," he surmises.

"Yes."

"It's easy, but it's not your time," he reveals, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"I miss you, Bent. I have no one to talk to me about fuck ups now, and I've been doing that a lot lately."

_I want to tell him about Tanya. I want to tell him about what's going on with me and Isabella, but the words get stuck in my throat as I look at my friend._ _I really miss him._

He grins but doesn't acknowledge my statement. "We'll see each other sooner than you think. Just use that brain to go back, now."

Just as with Momma, Bent disappears into the ocean.

_What the hell? _

How do I use my brain to leave here?

What do I do?

I trulywish Isabella was massaging my shoulders right now. She'd get the knots out and then _maybe_ I'd be able to concentrate on how to leave. As I reminisce about Isabella's hands, her words replay themselves to me.

"_You stay with me Edward or so help me God, I'll kill you myself. I am not raising your kid by myself."_

She's pregnant.

For me.

Isabella and I are having a baby.

_That _puts a smile on my face.

I gather some sand in my hand and breathe deeply.

We're having a baby.

Now, this is strange.

Why are my hands disappearing?

_What in the name of all that's __holy,__ is goddamn happening?_

**Friday, December 14, 1979**

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sounds ringing in my ears and the strong scents of Pine-sol® and other disinfectants give me a clue as to where I am. This is the second time I've awakened in Bogue Hospital, and frankly, it's a little disconcerting.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I hear footsteps clicking on the linoleum tiles as they come closer to me. I try to keep my eyes open.

"Oh goodness, you're finally awake," she states, relief palpable in her tone.

I attempt to raise my hand, but I'm overcome with a sense of lethargy that sweeps my entire body. Her face is blurry, and her voice is not quite clear.

_What the hell?_

"Let me get you a nurse."

I blink at the hospital's blinding light, wishing she'd have read my mind that I wanted it off.

Her voice wakes me up. "The nurse will be here soon."

I can't make out verbatim what she's said. Her speech is interlaced with what sounds like static to me.

_What is the matter with my hearing?_

"Edward, I'm so glad you're awake. Mom has been worried about you, and so have I."

Everything is so blurry; I _think_ she touches my toes through the sheets, but her movements are distorted, so I'm not actually sure what I'm seeing or feeling.

"I don't know what I would have done, um, had you ..."

I close my eyes and rely on my other senses to help me figure out the things my ears and eyes can't hear or see, respectively.

"I've been here every day for the past three months. I just couldn't leave your side." She sniffs softly.

There's less static interweaving itself into her words, and I can hear somewhat clearer now. Her fuzzy shape seems closer to my face.

She leans down, kissing my cheek, then, whispers, "We're having a girl, Edward. Can you believe it?"

Backing away from me slightly, she claps her hands in excitement.

The clap restores my hearing and eyesight completely.

And I find myself staring into Tanya's excited eyes.

_What the hell?_

**A/N:**

First, let me apologize to all my wonderful readers for sending out this update so late. I've been immersed in the many contests on FF. I'm in the TLS Angst Contest. If you've not read, please check out all the entries at www . fanfiction u/4769441/TLS-Angst-Contest (remove the spaces).

Second, after Sunflower Fran waves her magic wand on my drabby words, making it all sunny for your eyes, I go tinkering with it. So, in the last chapter, there were a few mistakes which are **my** fault. I will not be doing that again.

I'd like each of you to give yourself a round of applause for sticking with me and my crazy story. There are limited words in the dictionary to really express the extent of my gratitude.


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter 21 ~ A Day in the Life (by The Beatles)

I read the news today oh, boy

About a lucky man who made the grade

And though the news was rather sad

Well, I just had to laugh

I saw the photograph

He blew his mind out in a car

He didn't notice that the lights had changed

A crowd of people stood and stared

They'd seen his face before

Nobody was really sure if he was from the House of Lords

I saw a film today oh, boy

The English army had just won the war

A crowd of people turned away

But I just had to look

Having read the book

I'd love to turn you on

Woke up, fell out of bed

Dragged a comb across my head

Found my way downstairs and drank a cup

And looking up, I noticed I was late

Found my coat and grabbed my hat

Made the bus in seconds flat

Found my way upstairs and had a smoke

And somebody spoke and I went into a dream

Ah

I read the news today oh, boy

Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire

And though the holes were rather small

They had to count them all

Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall

I'd love to turn you on

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _A Day in the Life _are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

Some dates to keep in mind: Izzy and Cullen made sweet, passionate love on Cullen's 29th birthday on **June 20, 1979** – chapter 17. A drunk Cullen and Tanya did the horizontal tango on **July 20, 1979 **– chapter 18. Izzy finds out she's pregnant a day after her 19th birthday on **September 14, 1979** (this is also when Cullen is shot for the second time and is made of aware that he & Izzy are expecting) – chapter 19. Cullen wakes up in the hospital and is told by Tanya they are expecting a girl on **December 14, 1979 **– chapter 20. Oh, in my world, Cullen impregnates Izzy and Tanya the first time he sleeps with them (LOL ~ both scenes were fade-to-black, but I do solemnly vow that a full-on lemon is coming up). Okay, shutting up now.

**Friday, December 14, 1979**

I wake up with a start. I'd dreamt I was giving Cullen a massage.

_That's so weird._

Groaning, I will myself back to sleep. However, I know this will either take massive amounts of alcohol or at the very least, a few sleeping pills—none of which I can consume in my present state. I rub the bump that has decided to make its presence known in the last month. From the front, I don't look so bad, but from the side, I look as if I swallowed a basketball.

"Hey, stay still in there. Mommy is trying to sleep," I command, rubbing my stomach.

The kicks remind me of its father, which triggers my memory from the last time I'd seen him—rather attempted to—three months ago. Three days after he was shot, I went to Bogue Hospital. But that horrid day started and ended disastrously.

*****FLASHBACK — Early morning on Monday, September 17, 1979*****

"Honey?" I feel hands shake my shoulders. "Izzy, baby, Seth is here."

"Huh?" I struggle to come from my semi-conscious state.

I've had a horrible few days. Sporadic naps interrupted by bouts of morning sickness, which for some strange reason doesn't always happen in the morning. Why it's called morning sickness is beyond me because this shit comes whenever it feels like_. _Since the 'incident', as I've dubbed the day we were robbed, I've had the most frightening nightmares. They all end the same way, each time—Edward and I are both told bad news.

"Seth is here," my mother repeats.

I shake the last bit of sleepiness out of my eyes. "Tell him I'll be down in a second."

I hear my bedroom door close, and I unwillingly get up from the bed. A quick trip to the bathroom and I feel somewhat refreshed, at least enough to have a conversation with Seth. I know my mother told him about my involvement in a robbery and shooting, but he has not spoken directly to me. My fault … not his. I just _can't _talk to Seth when my entire focus would be on Edward. There's a lot I need to tell him, and I'm glad I'll be able to do it face-to-face rather than over the phone. He deserves to hear the truth from my lips.

_Better get this over with_.

He's waiting for me at the foot of the stairs and instantly, I feel like the worst human on the planet. _How could I have done all that I've done to this sweet man?_

I stuff my hand in my pocket to make sure his ring is there.

"Sweetheart!" He comes up a few of the steps and takes both my hands. "I'm so glad to see your beautiful face," he states, caressing my cheek.

I give him a weak smile.

"Aren't you glad to see me, Bella?"

Because I'm lower than pond scum who's about to stomp on the heart of one of the best men I've ever known, I pull in him into a hug that's dripping with my 'I'm sorry' and 'Please forgive me'—sentiments I'm moments away from conveying.

"I came as soon as I could. You must have been so terrified," he notes, pushing some hair from my face.

"Yeah, I was," I whisper, looking around to make sure we're alone.

"Sure, sure. Let's have a seat on the couch."

"I'd rather go somewhere a little more private. Did you drive?"

"Yes. We can go to my car," he comments. He eyes me strangely, as if he's trying to figure out my reason for a talk.

He opens the passenger door for me, and I fiddle with his radio station settings. _Maybe some music will help lighten the blow_ I muse. Just as he enters the car, I land on a radio station I usually don't listen to, and there's a song I don't recognize. The lyrics are extremely sad. It sounds as if the world is falling apart, but the beautifully-playing orchestra adds a wonderful element to the haunting lyrics.

"That was The Beatles' classic _A Day in the Life_," the radio announcer says.

_Ah,_ I acknowledge mentally as I lower the volume to begin my difficult speech.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner, Bella. When your mother told me your harrowing tale, I wanted to ..." he angrily retorts.

"I'm okay, Seth. It's, um, Cullen that we should be concerned about. He … Edward is injured badly, from what I've been told."

"That's too bad," he mutters.

His words don't ring true to my ears. And, I hope I'm only hearing things.

"It's serious, Seth. Edward … he could die," I choke out.

"I'm sorry you're upset about your friend but my concern is you … _m__y fiancée_."

_How do I say this? _

"About that—"

His quick smile is so pure that it further increases the guilt eating away at my insides.

"So how was your birthday? I have a gift for you, by the way."

"My birthday?" I reply distractedly.

"Yes, Bella, the one you celebrated a few days ago," he points, shaking his head while still smiling.

I'm not sure how he can talk of birthdays and gifts when Edward is in Bogue Hospital's intensive care unit.

"To hell with my birthday! I just told you that Edward could die," I bellow, turning my head away from him as the tears begin to roll down my face.

"Whoa, calm down—"

"Don't tell me to calm down," I shout, facing him. "My … Edward … he could die, and you don't even care," I huff out.

"I care,Bella." His voice lowers and his next words are tinged with slight accusation that makes me internally squirm. "But it seems you care way too much about someone that's simply a 'friend'."

His use of air quotes as he mention friend rubs me the wrong way.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying. Who is this Edward Cullen anyway?" he yells.

I open my mouth to respond, but I close them quickly because _I _don't even know who Edward is … at least what he is to _me_.

"I wonder if you'd be this cut up if _I _was the one near death's door," he mutters.

"Edward is a … he's a friend. My friend and _I_ care if he lives or dies," I stammer just as I feel a wave of nausea hit me.

_Not now baby! Please don't make __M__ommy sick now._

"Like I said, I'm sorry …"

"You don't sound like you are," I grumble.

"Why are we arguing about him? I came all this way to see my soon-to-be-wife and shower her with love. It seems Edward Cullen, even in the damn hospital, always manages to interrupt us."

I'm not sure how to answer him. How do I tell him something that's hurtful? Am I ready for him to consider me an uncaring bitch?

I gulp. "I … Idon'tthinkthisisgoingtowork."

"What? Slow down."

"I don't … no, this," I stutter, "You and I … um, shit …" I blow out a breath. "This isn't working, Seth."

He moves his head side to side as if to relieve some tension, then he faces me. "I'm confused. What are you talking about?"

"I'm so sorry. You just deserve," I sigh, shaking my head. "You deserve more than I can give you right now."

"Bella, where is this coming from? Is it because I'm not acting broken up about your friend? I'm sorry he's in the hospital, but I'm glad as hell that you're not lying in a bed like he is. So sue me!"

As his voice elevates, I cringe a little away from him.

"Ah … no, Seth, I _really _shouldn't have said yes. I didn't even mean to …"

As the confession slips from my lips, I quickly cover my mouth. Damn, now I seriously sound like a cold-hearted bitch.

"What!" he cries, turning his face away from me and looking through the front glass.

_It's like he can't look __at me. _With that thought, I slip the ring onto the dashboard.

_Well neither can I, buddy. Neither can I._

"What are doing? Wait just a damn minute here." He clears his throat and takes, what appears to me as a calming breath. "Let's talk before we both do or say something rash."

My brain shouts, _Rash was three months ago, the day I accepted your proposal!_

But since I've hurt him enough, I tell him quietly instead, "I'm sorry for misleading you. It's my fault. It's me. It's not you."

"But, I love you," he admits softly, taking my hand.

"I …"

He lets my hand go and exhales loudly. "You can't even say it back, can you? You've never said those words to me."

I take in his side-profile and even looking at him I hate myself that it's not Edward's.

I shake my head before slowly and lowly replying, "I don't love you."

Even to my ears, what I've said sounds harsh, and it is, but it's also the truth, and I'm tired of lying. The realization that I've revealed my true feelings to at least one person since returning home is so freeing that I feel a small smile start to form on my lips.

"It's okay. You don't have to because I love you enough for the both of us. Eventually," he pleads, turning to face me, "I know you'll love me back."

My small smile immediately dies on my lips.

He has unshed tears in his eyes. I want to comfort him and reassure him, but I know that will only confuse the issue and negate what I'm trying to tell him.

"I _may_ love you eventually, but I'll never love anyone the way I love … the way I love Edward."

He does not respond to my declaration.

_Ther__e,__it's out in the open. Now he knows. _

"I'm … I'm sorry," I acknowledge as a few tears escape from my tear ducts.

He turns away from me and in doing so I see that his usually sharp-features which make him look so handsome look is now etched in pain … pain that _I_ caused.

He grunts and punches the steering wheel. "You must have both thought I was the biggest, fucking idiot around."

I'm too shaken to say anything. I know Seth would never hurt me, but I've also never seen him upset before, let alone utter one foul word in my presence.

"Here I am going out with someone that's hung up on someone else. I guess that's why you and I never did anything besides kissing, huh?" he hisses, staring out the window.

"It was never intentional. I didn't set out to hurt you. Edward and I, um, we have history, and I thought, well, I thought I was over him when you and I met … but …"

"But, you aren't," he finishes sadly.

"No, I'm not," I reveal.

"You and me—we could've had a good life. You wouldn't want for anything."

"You're probably right."

I know he'd never hurt me. He'd remain faithful to me. He'd go to the moon if that's what I wanted. Sadly, _all _that did not make him into the man that makes me insanely happy even if said man, sometimes, acts like a dipshit.

"Mark my words, if he lives, he'll hurt you. If he hasn't done so already," he forewarns.

"You're probably right, again, but _he's_ still my choice," I respond firmly.

"I'll miss you. I'll miss what we could have had."

I feel awful that I can't return the sentiment. "Be safe out there. I hope you meet a better woman than me."

"Isabella Marie Swan, _you_ are the best woman for me," he insists with a small smile.

Hand on the door handle, I reply, "Have a good life, Seth. One day, maybe you can forgive me, yeah?"

Exiting the car, I hear him say, "I already have."

I stand on the sidewalk as his car drives away. I feel bad to have hurt him, but I also feel much lighter now that I've told him the truth. The engagement was weighing me down especially the more time I spent with Edward. My talk with Seth re-confirms what I've come to realize since 'the incident': I'd rather a lifetime of hurts, fights, arguments, and making-ups from all those things with Edward, than a single moment without him in my life.

He's _my_ at last, I admit to myself. As I think about him, I find myself hurrying toward the house, to dress for the hospital.

**Early afternoon on Monday, September 17, 1979**

"I'd like a visitor's pass to visit Edward Cullen."

"I'm sorry ma'am, but the ICU has a limit on the number of visits the patient can receive at one time."

"I don't understand."

"Mr. Cullen currently has two visitors with him."

"Oh."

"You wouldn't be able to go up unless one of them came down here," she further explains.

"Okay, I'll just come—"

"Wait a second. They've both been up there a long time. Let me see if one will come down so you can go up, okay?"

"Sure."

She picks up the phone. "Hello. Yes, I'm calling from the Welcome Center. Mr. Cullen has another visitor, and I am wondering if you or the other visitor would come down for a short while so that she could go up?" she politely inquires.

There's silence as she listens to the other party.

"I'll ask her," she tells the person as she puts her hand over the mouth of the receiver. "And you are?"

I tell her my name and she repeats it in the phone. She ends the conversation with a smile.

"Good news, miss. The person is coming down so you can go up."

"Great. Thanks for your help."

"I'll write you out a visitor's pass when she comes down."

I don't know what it is, but at the mention of a female visiting Edward, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle a little and I gear up my mind for whatever bullshit is about to step off the elevator. I walk over to the small sitting area across from the Welcome Center and look through the floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooks the hospital's main entrance as I await this female.

"Well, look who it is?"

_I should have known it would be her_.

I'd recognize that voice anywhere even if I haven't heard it in two years.

_Ruthie!_

I turn to face her, but my eyes land on the side profile of Bent's sister who's proudly rubbing her stomach while she smirks.

_What the hell is she doing here?_

"Come to visit the man you almost killed?" she taunts.

My gaze is pulled onto Ruthie. "What are you talking about?" I shake my head in confusion.

Ruthie steps closer to me. Bent's sister, whose name escapes me at the moment, is about two paces behind her.

"Eddie is in ICU because of you," she argues, jabbing a red-painted nail in my direction.

"Whoa." I throw my hand up, backing away. "It was a robbery I had nothing to do with."

"No? He would have been on his regular beat, out of harm's way, had he not have to come to your rescue once again." She sneers.

I'm not sure what she's heard or what she means by once again.

"You have it all wrong—"

Ruthie interrupts me stating, "Did you and your little friends plan this?"

"I bet she did," Bent's sister agrees, folding her arms over her torso.

"Oh, for God's sake, I don't have time for this. I'm going to visit Edward." I move past her, but she grabs my upper arm in a vise-like grip.

"Get your goddamn hands off of me." I drag out each word, so she knows I mean business.

"As the mother of his child, I'm his closest next of kin. I get to decide who visits him," she tells me haughtily. "And, I say _you_ can't go up."

"So you should leave," her 'buddy' pipes up.

_Oh_. It's becoming clear now._ They're in on this together._

"Well, you're not the only baby mother here, so if you'll—"

"Oh, so you've heard then?" Bent's sister questions mysteriously. "Good. I'm glad you know Edward and I are having a baby."

"What?" I yell as I back up to the glass, hoping my feet won't give out from under me.

"Yes, Tanya here is giving Em a baby sister. Isn't that fabulous, Isabella?" They both smile triumphantly at their news.

I see her lips moving, but I've heard nothing beyond "Edward and I are having a baby".

The bile rushes up my esophagus threatening to spill forth. I try to take small breaths as much as possible, but it's now in my mouth, and the taste of it on my tongue is too much. And just as I see their smiles, it comes rushing up and finally spewing onto Ruthie's dress.

"You stupid, little—" Ruthie yells, walking toward me threateningly.

"Hey, what's going on over here?" the lady from the Welcome Center inquires as she comes from behind Tanya and faces Ruthie. "Oh my goodness, miss, are you alright?" She turns in my direction, helping me to sit.

"Why are you asking if she's okay? Can't you see my friend needs your help," Tanya whines even as she steps away from Ruthie.

"I'm going to kick your …"

_Goddamn cheating bastard! I'll kill him with my bare hands_ is the fleeting thought I have before everything fades to black.

**About 9pm on Monday, September 17, 1979**

"Izzy, Seth called a few hours ago. Do you mind telling us what's going on?" my father requests, coming into my room.

I've been sitting in the same spot on my bed since I returned from the hospital earlier this afternoon. His question jars me out of the haze that's hovered over my mind. Looking up, I see that he's dragged my mother with him.

"Um …"

"What would Seth have to talk to your father about?" my mother asks, coming further into my room.

"Yes, please enlighten us."

I really don't want to have this conversation now. But, Charles looks determined. I swing my leg over the bed and as I get up, from the corner of my eye, I see Jane lurking in the dim hallway.

_Great, now I have a damn audience. _

"Seth and I broke up," I tell them matter-of-factly.

"What!" my father yells.

"What in the world is going on? He came all the way from California to see you," my mother laments.

"Well, it wasn't working. So, I ended it."

"Uh huh," my father responds shrewdly as if he knows there's more unsaid than said.

"But, I don't under—" my mother begins to say.

_I might as well rip off the next couple of __Band-Aids altogether._

I expel a breath.

"I'm not going to Kingington Teacher's College in October because I'm pregnant," I rush to tell them as I back away from a fuming Charles.

"You're what?" my mother screams.

"You goddamn slut!" bellows my father.

"Charles," my mother quietly admonishes.

"Well, she is. Only one reason," He sneers, approaching me, "To dump a _fiancé_ is … if that fiancé isn't the one that knocked you up. Isn't that right, Isabella?"

I see my mother rubbing her hands together as if she's nervous about my response. "Is that true, Izzy? Isn't Seth the father of the baby?" my mother inquires.

"Um …" I reply, fanning myself because I'm suddenly feeling very warm. "No, he's not."

From the hallway, I hear a light chuckle.

Inside the room, I hear a groan and a quick intake of breath.

"Izzy, how could you?" my mother retorts shockingly.

"Slut!" my father repeats as he slaps me across the face.

"Charles! What are you doing?" my mother asks, rushing in front of me.

_Like that will stop his blows. _I chuckle humorlessly as my father steps away from us.

"Well it takes one to know one," I mutter, rubbing my cheek.

"What did you say, missy?" my father barks, stepping in front of my mother and me, again.

I'm tired!

I'm tired of Cullen's bullshit.

I'm tired of walking on eggshells around Charles and Jane.

I'm just plain old tired.

"I said it takes a slut," I repeat, raising my voice an octave while shoving a finger in his face, "to know a slut."

"You disrespectful, ungrateful bitch! Talking to your father like that; and, in my own goddamn house," he declares menacingly.

"I don't even know why Mom slept with you in the first damn place! I wish you weren't my father," I bellow.

In between my rants, my mother has grabbed my hands. Maybe so I wouldn't be tempted to pummel his face with my fists. So now, she tugs them as if to beg me to shut up. But I'm on a roll, so, I ignore her.

_Might as well finish nailing my coffin shut_ is the thought that flits through my head as I lay out how I've felt about my father for so many years.

"You're piece of shit father, and an even shittier husband. You stick that thing," I snarl, pointing to his crotch area as I shake my hands loose from my mother's, "into every willing hole that walks by you."

"Isabella!" my mother screeches as her hand flies to her mouth.

"It's true. I know it's true, and you know it's true, Mom. Let's call a spade a spade. That's probably why all his friends call him goddamn Fire!" I blow out a breath, throwing myself on the bed.

His face is now a rosy red, and he looks like steam is coming from his ears.

_Good!_

In my doorway, Jane is standing in full view with her hands on her throat as if she can't believe what I've said.

"And, let's _all_ stop pretending that she," I whisper, pointing at Jane, "ismy cousin. She looks more like Charles fucking Swan than even I do."

And with that, I burst into tears.

He spins sharply on his heels bumping into Jane who moves away from my doorway.

I hate my life.

I hate my father.

Always cheating on my mother.

And my mother?

My damn mother turns a blind eye to his shit.

About ten years ago, she learned he had five other children a couple of hours away from us; three girls, and two boys. Four are mere months older than me, but one is actually born a day after I was. All have different mothers. What did my mother do? Nothing. She did not confront Charles; there were no arguments or nights of him sleeping on the couch. Instead, she's been quietly sending them all small care packages correctly assuming that Charles has not then—nor is he now—adequately provided for any of them since their birth.

_The piece of shit!_

The absolute worse is: _I'm_ now my mother.

The one thing I'd never, ever wanted to be.

I love my mother dearly and would do anything for her, but the fact that she's tied to this man that has no regard for her or the supposed sanctity of their marriage scares me. Added onto that is a man that has a total of eight children—six of which he obviously begat during his marriage.

Now, Tanya _and_ I are pregnant at the same, goddamn time by the same, goddamn man!

I would like to askher why she stays, why she continues to send care packages to the 'other' women, and why she doesn't confront Charles with the truth about Jane, but I don't because I know she'll never answer me.

"I'm just tired, Mom. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of being upset. I'm tired of being sad," I tell her instead.

_I'm just fucking tired!_

"We'll get through this. And … and, you'll make it to that teacher's college even if I have to sell everything I own."

That's my mother for you. Ever my defender even if I've royally messed up!

_This has been one hell of a day._

*****END FLASHBACK*****

**Friday, December 14, 1979**

I wipe the tears away thinking about that day.

Despite Tanya being pregnant by him, each day since September seventeenth, I realize I miss the son-of-cheating-motherfucker like never before!

_And,_ Edward still makes my heart beat harder than any person I've ever known.

**A/N:** Sunflower Fran is an amazing beta. If you see her trolling around Facebook, give her a holla! Check out the blog luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for chapter title songs, looks and much more.


	23. Chapter 22

Chapter 22 ~ Ain't too Proud to Beg (by The Temptations)

I know you wanna leave me,

But I refuse to let you go,

If I have to beg, plead for your sympathy,

I don't mind 'cause you mean that much to me.

Ain't too proud to beg and you know it,

Please don't leave me girl,

Don't you go,

Ain't too proud to plead, baby, baby,

Please don't leave me, girl,

Don't you go.

Now I've heard a cryin' man

Is half a man with no sense of pride,

But if I have to cry to keep you,

I don't mind weepin' if it'll keep you by my side.

Ain't too proud to beg and you know it,

Please don't leave me girl,

Don't you go,

Ain't too proud to plead, baby, baby,

Please don't leave me, girl,

Don't you go.

If I have to sleep on your doorstep all night and day

Just to keep you from walking away,

Let your friends laugh, even this I can stand,

'cause I wanna keep you any way I can.

Ain't too proud to beg and you know it,

Please don't leave me girl,

Don't you go,

Ain't too proud to plead, baby, baby,

Please don't leave me, girl,

Don't you go.

Now I've got a love so deep in the pit of my heart,

And each day it grows more and more,

I'm not ashamed to call and plead to you, baby,

If pleading keeps you from walking out that door.

Ain't too proud to beg and you know it,

Please don't leave me girl,

Don't you go,

Ain't too proud to plead, baby, baby,

Please don't leave me, girl,

Don't you go.

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _Ain't too Proud to Beg _are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**This is a special thank you to everyone that has left a review, shared your theories, and even questioned my writing strategy. Melton . Cecilia (remove the space) and Eduardiana PMed me some of their theories which I had to debunk and that was fun times for us. Daphodill got me thinking about why I write the way that I ****do, and**** I'm still processing that conversation. And, many of you have shared your distress about the ups and downs of Izzy's and Cullen's relationship. But, two wonderful, ****super-duper,**** fantastic reviews that just made my heart so glad were the guest reviewer that called me a 'f#%$*&g idiot' and the other one, yes, you (LOL) that wished death on a character for doing exactly what I warned would be in my fic (oh, incidentally, he will not **_**actually **_**cheat until chapter 27 or thereabo****uts****, and I can't wait for the vile things you will then say about me). I truly, from the depth of my big ol' heart, thank the both of you! Onward with my '[im]possible' and fic …**

**Monday, December 31, 1979**

_I hope she's home. _

Fluffing the pillow behind my head, I rest my head backward and mentally cross my fingers. I also send up a prayer to God for help. _I'm going to need Your_ _help __with this one_.

"Hello."

I cough to clear my throat—for some reason, all the saliva has disappeared. "May I speak with Isabella?"

There's nothing but silence on the other end for a long while.

"She's not here," the person—reluctantly—mutters.

Disappointed, I reply, "Okay, I'll try again at another time …"

"Officer Cullen?"

I knew who I was speaking with the moment I heard the voice, but it seems she's only picked up my voice.

"Yes, Mrs. Swan, it's me."

"I …" she stammers, probably not wanting to speak with me, "She's at work."

I don't know how to express my gratitude because I realize she didn't have to tell me anything.

"Thank you," I retort lamely.

"Why …"

"I don't want to get into anything over the phone, Mrs. Swan. But, I know I owe your family a visit as well as a long, overdue conversation. All I can tell you now is that this thing with Isabella is real, at least for _me_," I confess.

"But—"

"Can you please, let me hash some things out with Isabella before you and I continue this?" I beg.

She's silent for what seems like an eternity, which is probably where Isabella's gets it from. Isabella's silence speaks volumes as well as her facial expressions.

Finally she responds with, "I'll hold you to that."

I hang up the phone and try to figure things out. I know she won't come here on her own. But, I also know I'd liketo see her. No, scratch that, I _need_ to see her. Contemplating my options, I pick up the phone again and make a couple of calls. Everyone I speak to agrees to play the part I've asked of them, which I'm grateful for. I rub my palms together in anticipation about my plan for tonight. If Bent was alive, he'd be doing all of this for me. Thinking of him only reminds me of my dream, or whatever the hell that was. _I really miss him_.

All that's left is one last phone call. Taking a deep breath, I dial the number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, son."

"Daddy," Em squeals.

In the background, I hear Ruthie ask who it is, and Em answers her.

"When are you leaving there, Daddy?"

"I should be out of here soon, bud."

"I'm glads," he lisps.

"I'm glad," I correct.

He tries twice before he's able to say it properly.

"I'm calling to tell you I love you and will miss you tonight."

"Me too," he mumbles sadly, "Mommy has to work."

_For which I'm ecstatic. _If she didn't have to work and knew of my plan, she'd come here purposefully to be a pain in the ass.

"I know, but we'll see each other tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," he responds, sadness still tinting his words, "You wanna talk to mommy?"

_Not __really, _but instead I say, "Sure, buddy. And Em, if I hear that you were on your best behavior while Mommy works, maybe we could ride in my wheelchair again, huh?"

That should work to put a smile on his face. I'm rewarded with his boisterous giggles as he tells me he loves me and hands his mother the phone.

"Eddie."

We are, unfortunately, well beyond exchanging pleasantries now. She started showing her ass when I moved out back in '78 and, again, when I told her about me and Isabella a few days ago. She'd threatened to cut Em out of my life—as if she hadn't been trying that since my move—if I brought him anywhere near 'the bitch', as she referred to Isabella. But, I squashed that bullshit because _no one_ is taking my son away from me. She'd yell, and I'd yell right back. Our voices escalated to such high decibels, making it necessary for security personnel to escort her from my room and I was given sedatives to calm down. Not wanting to prolong my conversation, I get to the point.

"What time are you guys coming tomorrow?"

"I get off at eight in the morning. So, I guess around two."

"See you then."

"Eddie—"

I end the call abruptly because I don't have time for whatever she's about to say.

_Sue me. You fucking talk to Ruthie if you think I was too harsh then!_

All that's left for me to do is wait. I have a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach as I think of the multiple ways this plan could end. I've nothing to go by to gauge how the hell she'll react. When I think she's going to go up, she goes down. It's like she enjoys having me always on tenterhooks. I've decided I'll swing whatever way she swings. _As long as she's not leaving me or cutting me out of our kid's life_ I mentally think as a nurse comes in to take my vitals.

**Some hours later ...**

_It looks good in here _I think as I limp over to light the last candle.

They should be here in about a minute.

Lowering the lights, I go over my arsenal. Yes, I have an arsenal because I'm about to go to war and it'd be foolish of me not to be prepared. I _am _fighting for my life here.

'I fucked up' gift, _check_.

Birthday gift—late—but that really wasn't my fault,_ check_.

Music, _check_.

I've made sure the nursing staff will skip my room on their rounds—that at least gives me an uninterrupted hour, and my man will stay at the door to ensure that. He's also staying in case Isabella tries to leave, which I know she goddamn will try. A man has to do what a man has to do. I nod my head—even though no one's here—as if the action further seals the matter completely.

Going into the bathroom, I give myself theonce-over. I look good, if I do say so myself. I'm wearing my favorite, ruby-colored velour shirt with a pair of jeans. That hospital gown had to go. I couldn't have my girl come here looking like temptation on legs, and me looking like what I'd look like a few minutes ago, now could I?

Gingerly I take my place at the foot of the bed as I hear a couple of raps on the door.

"Come in," I urge.

We briefly acknowledge each other as his hand guides Isabella in, and then he quickly closes the door.

_My goodness, she's breathtaking._

I can't help myself, I groan aloud as my breath hitches in my throat.

"Goddamn, you look good, girl."

Even in the dim light, I can see her amber eyes darken slightly. I fool myself, momentarily, that it's in response to what I've said, but knowing Isabella as I know her, it's in anger.

_This is going to be one hell of a night!_

"Have a seat." I indicate to the chair beside the bed.

She doesn't say anything as she inches backward to the door.

_Go ahead and try it_ I mentally chuckle.Still facing me, she jiggles the door handle—which is locked—and I see her eyes are now glaring daggers at me.

_See, I told you she's angry._

"Have a seat, Isabella."

I love saying her name. _Isabella_. _My Isabella_. I savor the taste of her name on my tongue like fine wine.

She doesn't move or respond.

_Okay, arsenal number one coming up_.

I hit play on the boom box sitting atop the portable hospital table. With the song's first 'Ooos' and melancholy chords, I close the distance between us. When Brenda Lee croons the words, 'I'm sorry', I extend my hand toward her. There are tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Seeing them, I'm more contrite. She looks at my hand as the line, 'I didn't know love could be so cruel', envelopes us. She shakes her head in the negative, and I lean into her—mindful of her stomach—and mouth 'please'.

Her stance is more defiant and her continued muteness leaves me feeling desperate.

"Dance with me … please …" I plead.

I'm not sure why she consents but am happy when she takes my hand.

We sway to the beat as the words pierce my heart and I realize how badly I've messed up.

I've never uttered the words the singer is expressing to_ anyone_. But right now, I want to say them … to her. The many ways I've hurt this woman in my arms—now, the soon-to-be mother of my child—come rushing back to me: my omission about Ruthie; my most recent, stupid move of sleeping with Tanya; and_ her _pregnancy.

But I can't.

The words get stuck in my throat.

So instead, I hold her closer and inhale more of her smell as I repeat the words from the song.

_I'm sorry, so sorry  
That I was such a fool  
I didn't know  
Love could be so cruel  
Oh, oh, oh, oh  
Uh, oh  
Oh, yes_

You tell me mistakes  
Are part of being young  
But that don't right  
The wrong that's been done

Spoken:  
(I'm sorry) I'm sorry  
(So sorry) So sorry  
Please accept my apology  
But love is blind  
And I was too blind to see  
Oh, oh, oh, oh  
Uh, oh  
Oh, yes

As the song nears its end, I'm afraid to let her go. It's been over six months since I've held her this close—you can't count that day in the alley because we were interrupted. I drop my chin lightly on top of her forehead as I hear a few sniffles. My hand drops to her face, and it's wet.

She stops swaying with me. "Cullen—"

The Temptations' _Ain't too Proud to Beg_ interrupts her, and I'm glad it does.

I tenderly wipe her eyes and force her to look at me. Mutely, I try to tell her not to cry with a shake of my head. The instruments playing in the background begs for my hands to be somewhere else. So, they roam down her hips, and I get a firm hold of them as I feel soft kicks from her stomach.

_I'll talk with you later baby. Let me dance with mommy for a little bit_ I say silently to our child nestled in my girl's womb.

The longer the song plays, the more I realize the hold this woman has on me. I'm not above begging her to stay. Never having been remotely close to the feeling of love for anyone else—except for Momma and Em—it hits with such force that _I_ am in love.

_Shit. _

Simultaneously as the realization dawns on me, the song morphs into Johnny Ace's _Pledging my Love_.

When I'd picked these songs to be put onto the cassette tape, I thought I'd chosen songs that would get me back into her good graces. But as I listen to Ace sing, I realize, that on a subconscious level, the songs playing are sentiments I've longed to express to her, but circumstances and my cowardice never allowed for it. In this instant, holding her in my arms with our baby between us, I know I'll never, ever love another woman as deeply as I love her.

_My heart's at your command dear _

_To keep love and to hold _

_Making you happy is my desire dear _

_Keeping you is my goal_

The song ends. I feel her pulling away from me, but I can't let her go without her knowing the truth.

Lowering my mouth to her ear, I lightly nibble on the outer shell and whisper, "No matter what, keeping _you_ is _my_ goal."

She moans and her body goes limp. I'd like to think the action is in acceptance of what I've said.

The next song comes on, and our natural, physical chemistry forces our bodies toward one another. I pull her away from the door toward me and pour my heart out into my movements as James Brown's rasps out, _Please, Please, Please_. I'm not sure how much longer we dance, but we go through the entire recordings.

The mid-tempo _September_ by Earth, Wind and Fire comes on, and I give her a little twirl as I ask her, "Do you remember September?"

_I_ remember September.

Smiling I remember her telling me of her pregnancy, making that day one of the happier days of my life—up to that time, my only happier day had been seeing Em for the first time.

When she comes back into my arms, she stiffens, and her movements stop completely.

"Yeah," she admits, but she looks as if she's swallowed something foul tasting. "_I_ remember September." She sneers, pushing me away.

"Hey, what's going on?" I try to tip her face upward, but she backs away from me.

She blows out a breath that makes pieces of her hair fan away from her face.

"Talk to me, please." I nip the corner of her lips. _Sweet nectar_.

Silence, but she's a little more pliant in my arms.

_Maybe arsenal number two will loosen her up some_.

"See that potted plant?" I spin her around so she can see the plant on the table beside the bed, while I hold her in my arms.

She nods her head, and I take that as a good sign.

"It's a very rare flower, like you are; it's called the Ghost Orchid."

"Ah …"

I hold up a finger stilling her words. "The flower—beautiful isn't it?— is so rare that it's impossible to breed, has no leaves, doesn't even need photosynthesis, and doesn't make its own food."

"Um—"

"I'm not finished. I chose this flower to give to you tonight simply because it reminds me of us. This flower isn't your run of the mill flower. It's different and sometimes, being different is scary. There's a lot this particular flower can 'live' without, and it doesn't act like your average flower should. However, the flower needs a specific fungus in close contact with its roots system, which feeds it. The Ghost Orchid _will_ always depend on the fungus for its sustenance, without it the Orchid cannot survive," I tell her leaning my body toward her. "You're my sustenance, Isabella. I can't live without you at the root of me."

"Uh huh," she states snarkily.

I hear the change in her tone, and frankly, I don't like it. I just told her how much I need her, and _t__hat's_ her response.

"Hey, I'm here pouring my heart out—"

"Really?" She asks, pushing at my upper body—which does nothing to move me from her.

"That's you 'pouring your heart out'?"

"I'm not sure I like the air quotes or your—"

"Whatever!"

The last strands of _September _come to an end. I release my hands from her waist, and she instantly steps away from me. On her way to the seat, she jabs the stop button on the boom box, bringing complete silence into the room—besides her flopping down in the chair and my loud heartbeats, that is.

I'd hoped the flower's description would have some positive influence on her—moving us in a direction where we could talk. But all she's doing is staring silently at me. I'm not sure how to handle this. Sitting down, she begins tapping her foot.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

_Shit. I'm going to have to pull out the big guns now. _

_Okay, arsenal number three_.

I hedge toward the bed, pulling the top drawer open of the small table beside it. Looking at the box, I'm reminded about the day of the robbery and how they'd stolen her gift. Finding the same one again, while I was incapable of physically going in search of it, was hard but not impossible. I lay the gift-wrapped box in her lap and wait.

"What's this?" she demands. Her tone seems bitter to my ears.

"It's yours, happy belated nineteenth birthday."

"That day came and went—tragically, I might add," she snarls, studying her nails.

"I wanted to give you a gift since the last one was stolen. No need to be nasty."

"Oh, that's rich. You," she points her neatly trimmed nail in my direction, "think I'm being nasty!"

"Izzy, I'm trying over here."

And I am.

I am trying.

I've never tried at _anything _this hardin my life before. Having no clue what to do—how to win a woman—I was flying by the seat of my pants.

I wanted to smooth out some of our issues with some items that would assuage the guilt gnawing away at my gut while at the same time buy me some favor with her. She'd be in a nice, forgiving mood—I'd hoped—then we'd talk about Tanya.

"More like fucking failing," she mutters.

"Open the damn gift and stop being such a brat about—"

"Brat! He calls me a brat ..." She flails her hands in frustration, standing up.

This is going horribly wrong. She's taking everything out of context. "That's not—"

"I'll show you how bratty I can be!" she screams flinging the box at my chest.

Out of pure instinct, my hands fold themselves over the box quickly catching it before it falls to the ground.

"Isabella, give me …" I beg, stopping because I don't know what else to say or the right words to tell her.

"I'm not giving you shit! _You_ weren't the one with bloodied hands stuck in your side, not sure what the hell they were doing the day you were shot." She takes a breath.

"_You _weren't the one that broke the heart of a really, _really _good man!" She yells, exhaling.

"And, _you _weren't the one embarrassed when Ruthie gleefully told me about Tanya's pregnancyby goddamn _you_ while I'm over here pregnant by _you_ as well!" She starts pacing, rubbing her lower back.

"Please, Izzy, sit down. All this stress isn't good for you or the baby."

"Well, genius, you should have thought of that before you kidnapped me, shouldn't you?" She tries to hide her grimace.

Standing to my full height, I attempt to pull her toward me, but she sidesteps my motion, which makes me clutch my side in pain.

"Fuck," I groan.

Beads of perspiration had started forming on my forehead since we began talking, but I'd disregarded them. _This _isnot good.

"And turn the goddamn lights on," she states, flicking the light switch.

In the seconds between the light coming on, several things happen.

First, I note the clock besides the potted plant reads 11:59 pm.

Second, my subconscious hastily makes a wish that one day, preferably sooner than later, _one_ moment between the two of us will end favorably. Outside of my birthday, when we'd spent the few stolen hours together, it seems that has not been in the cards for us so far.

Third, it may not have been such a bright idea to request my nurses leave me unbothered and unchecked—after all, I am in a hospital for a reason.

As the light illuminates the room, I blink at its harshness and grab my side in agony. My hand comes back bloody. I'm feeling light-headed yet incredibly warm and cold at the same time.

"Edward," she cries.

"Hap … new … I … lov …" I hurriedly sputter, trying to tell her all the important things I should have simply told as she'd entered the room.

My vision blurs and I feel my legs giving out.

Gaplunck!

**A/N:**

As always, Sunflower Fran cleans up my garbled words for your enjoyment. If you can, PM her some appreciation for what she does. Don't forget to check out the blog luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for chapter title songs, looks and much more. And as always, my sincere thanks to each of you for reading.


	24. Chapter 23 - I Never Loved a Man the Way

Chapter 23 ~ I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You (by Aretha Franklin)

You're a no good heart breaker

You're a liar and you're a cheat

And I don't know why

I let you do these things to me

My friends keep telling me

That you ain't no good

But oh, they don't know

That I'd leave you if I could

I guess I'm uptight

And I'm stuck like glue

'Cause I ain't never

I ain't never, I ain't never, no, no (loved a man)

(The way that I, I love you)

Some time ago I thought

You had run out of fools

But I was so wrong

You got one that you'll never lose

The way you treat me is a shame

How could ya hurt me so bad

Baby, you know that I'm the best thing

That you ever had

Kiss me once again

Don'cha never, never say that we we're through

Cause I ain't never

Never, Never, no, no (loved a man)

(The way that I, I love you)

I can't sleep at night

And I can't even fight

I guess I'll never be free

Since you got, your hooks, in me

Whoa, oh, oh

Yeah! Yeah!

I ain't never loved a man

I ain't never loved a man, baby

Ain't never had a man hurt me so bad

No

Well this is what I'm gonna do about it

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You _are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**The events in the first half of this chapter take place approximately three hours after Chapter 22.**

**About 3 A.M. on Tuesday, January 1, 1980**

I rub away the encroaching sleep from my eyes for the umpteenth time since I've been in the waiting room. The hospital's bright, white floors are too glaring for my tired eyes, so I choose to get another visual stimulation in hopes of staying awake. The stimulation comes in the form of _her_ swinging leg. My eyes travel further up, and I'm face to face with Ruthie. Hard, narrow eyes arrest my gaze before she looks away, releasing me from our stare-off.

I exhale in relief.

Every time I've been in this woman's presence, I always end up feeling as if she has the upper hand. _She _seems to be in-the-know about all things Edward Cullen.

_She_ called me when he was shot; delivering the news that shattered our 'relationship'.

_She_ informed me of Tanya's pregnancy … by Edward.

On top of that, she continues to make me feel as if _I'm_ no good for Edward because of my age. Further, I get the impression, though she's never stated it, she'd rather him be with anyone else _but_ me!

Wanting to clear the air between us—because whether we like it or not, all of us would forever be intertwined because of the connection we have with Edward—I square my shoulders and gather my courage to break the tense atmosphere that has saturated the waiting room the moment she'd entered it.

"Ah, Ruthie, I think—"

She quickly turns to face me again, and instantly I regret opening my mouth.

"Why are you even here?" she barks out.

"Edward—"

Interrupting me yet again, she chuckles without any humor. "Why it is every time he's near you, all hell breaks loose. Why can't shit ever happen to _you_?"

I can't deal with this now.

I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. I'm so close to giving her what she wants—leaving the hospital and Edward altogether.At that thought, I feel the insistent kicks of our child as if in disagreement with me. My nerves are rubbed raw from the last night's events, and I have no desire to further deal with pit bull Ruthie at this ungodly hour.

Giving up, I crane my head to see the television that's hanging precariously on its perch in the waiting room. This is at least the tenth time I'm seeing the playback about last night's festivities. The reporter estimates there were close to a million people in Times Square ringing in the New Year.

_Maybe the eighties will be kinder to me_ I muse silently.

Seeing the doctor walking toward the waiting room, I begin to raise myself slightly from the chair. My action must have alerted Ruthie, because she quickly stands and faces the doctor, as well.

"He made it out just fine," the doctor announces once he enters the small space. "It was touch and go for quite some time, but he'll be fine."

"Thank heavens." I slide backward into the chair.

"Excuse me, who is Mr. Cullen's listed emergency contact?" he inquires, a little uncomfortably at me and Ruthie.

I sink further into the chair rubbing my stomach.

"I am," asserts Ruthie.

"You are …" prompts the doctor.

More loudly than necessary, she states, "Ruthie Gord."

"Well, ma'am, he's going to need around-the-clock care for at least two months or so. Will you be able to provide that?"

Ruthie scratches her forehead, before muttering, "I don't um, shit … I work long shifts."

I don't say a word. I don't want to breathe too hard to draw attention to myself. All I want to do is see Edward—if she'll let me— then go home, and get in the bed.

"Ma'am—"

"What's with this ma'am calling?" Ruthie complains. "Stop it!"

Smiling, in what looks like embarrassment, the doctor acquiesces with a nod of the head.

"I understand about your work schedule. That only means you'll need to come up with alternate care since you're unable to do it yourself," he explains.

She looks around the nearly empty waiting room, and her eyes settle on mine.

"Maybe you can get a family member?"

She shakes her head side to side.

"Well, how about a family friend, then?" The doctor hints.

"No. There's no one else," she insists with a strange tone in her voice. Breaking our eye contact, she faces the doctor again.

"I'm not sure what your options are, Ms. Gord. He'll be released in two days, and then I'll need a plan. Otherwise …"

_Otherwise what?_

What is he not saying?

Rising, I step toward the duo. The doctor's face is welcoming while Ruthie's countenance hardens.

"Maybe, uh, maybe I can help out with Edward's care?" I hedge.

"That won't be—" begins Ruthie.

Turning to face me, the doctor inquires, "And you are?"

Sticking out my hand, I reply, "Isabella Swan."

He shakes my hand with a smile. "How are you related to Mr. Cullen?"

"You see, I'm … well, Edward and I …"

"Oh, for God's sake, stop the fucking stuttering like a damn baby!" Ruthie exclaims. Pointing a finger at me, she announces, "She's another one of Eddie's baby mothers."

_Where's a hole that could swallow me whole?_

Dropping my hand, the doctor looks as embarrassed as I feel. I know my face is blazing red in horror at her words.

"Well … then, yes … you could—"

Interrupting the doctor, Ruthie yells, "No way! No way is _she_ helping Eddie." She places her hands on her hips in mutiny to my words.

"I don't see what other options there are, Ms. Gord. The man needs care, and you're unable—"

"Not unable. Unavailable because of—"

"For whatever reason, you can't do it, _and_ it must be done. If I were you, I'd consider Ms. Swan's help. Your other option is …"

"No, that's not an option," Ruthie rushes to say.

_What am I missing? _

_Where would Edward go if Ruthie or someone else is unable to care for him_?

The questions swimming in my head, combined with the lack of sleep and food, and now I feel light-headed. Cupping my hand over my head, I back away from the duo and slump down in the chair.

"Are you alright, Ms. Swan?" The doctor kneels in front of me with his hand on my head.

"Always gotta be the center of the goddamn attention," Ruthie grumbles.

"I'm fine," I assure him, swallowing the excess saliva that has pooled on my tongue. More forcefully, I state what's going to happen even though I hold a tenuous place in Edward's life. "He will have the required care. I have flexible hours at my job, and I can help take care ofhim." And, because I'm not a total bitch, I throw Ruthie a bone. "Ruthie _and_ I will care for him."

Looking her in the eyes, I dared her to contradict me. She tips her head forward in defeat.

_I'm not so inexperienced, am I now?_ I smile triumphantly.

**Tuesday, January 29, 1980 **

_I don't know why I opened my big mouth!_

Edward Anthony Masen bane-of-my-life-Cullen, has been a royal pain in my ass.

"Okay, deep breaths, Izzy," I mutter to myself, pushing the key into his front door.

Having been here for the better part of three weeks, I know that by this time, around noon, he's usually in one of two places: on his way to the bathroom, or limping back from the bathroom toward his bedroom.

Promising myself that today I would be the optimal caregiver, and not be tempted by the asshole, I straighten to my full height and enter the living room. His favorite radio disc jockey, DJ Love, is on the radio playing Ike & Tina Turner's _Fool in Love_.

"Shit," I mumble.

It is going to be _one _of those days.

A day when DJ Love plays songs about women stuck in love with idiots.

_Kinda like me_.

I chuckle at the irony as I head to where the patient should be.

Walking toward the bedroom, I peep in and realize he's in the bathroom. _Good_. Seeing him in his own element is getting worse for me. If I hurry up, we can both be on neutral territory back in the living room. His bedroom screams sex to me, and since I've not gotten any in over seven months, being in such proximity to Mr. Sex-on-Two-Legs is becoming unbearable. Even now, I'm salivating over him as I think about him semi-naked in the bathroom. I just want to jump on him and lick him all over.

_Ugh_. _Get a grip, Swan!_

Going further into the room, I begin tidying up: lining up his medication bottles, refilling his pitcher of water, and clearing away the empty dishes. From the television, I hear the Jessica Savitch reporting about the latest toy phenomenon, the Rubik's cube[1]. I momentarily glance at the screen and see the colorful cube. Before turning off the television with the remote, I have a fleeting thought that this cube thing would make me feel really dumb because I was ninety nine point nine percent sure that I would never be able to put the cube in its correct color order.

Leaning forward, I smooth out the rumpled sheet. His entire apartment smells like him, but his sheets and pillowcases are soaked with his one-of-a-kind Cullen scent. And because it's been a whole day since I've smelled him _and_ horny as hell, I hesitantly lean further over and sniff the pillows. If he catches me, I'll pretend I was fluffing them.

"That sure is a sight."

Damn.

Here we go.

I slowly straighten my back and turn to face him. He looks good. _Real_ good.

I bite my lip to smother the traitorous moan that is on the verge of spilling from my lips. "Hi."

"Hi," he replies, leaning against the doorpost.

That's the thing with Edward and me … the air between us is _always_ charged with unexpressed emotions, an overabundance of lust, and desire that's almost too much to bear. I discreetly rub my throat in hopes of squelching down the ache that's spreading through my entire body.

He moves from his spot and enters the room. And just like _all_ the other times that Edward and I are in any size room, I now feel claustrophobic. I take a hesitant step backward and bump the back of my knees on the bed, falling on top of it.

_Now I look like I want him to ..._

I'm jarred out of my musing as I see him approaching the bed like a caged tiger, and I'm sure he's going to pounce. His nostrils flare slightly, he tilts his head to the side as if thinking, and his eyes darken. I'm aware of these changes, because our gazes are fixed on each other. As badly as I want to look away from him, I can't_ not_ look at him. His eyes pull me into the deep recesses of himself—into his soul.

_Please, do something, anything, everything_.

I see a fleeting smile as if he's heard what I've thought. Instead of coming toward me like I hope he would, he actually backs away. It seems he catches himself and stops whatever action he was about to take. Backing away, he mumbles something I can't hear, and I'm disappointed he didn't pounce on me.

_Shit_.

Mumbling to myself about my idiotic thought, I try to scramble off the bed as much as my seven monthpregnant body will allow me to do. But, I can't—not without help.

"Help me up will you?"

On my back, with my arms at about a ninety degree angle, I see that he cracks his neck before he starts walking to the bed again. He places his knees on the outside of mine, and braces his hands on the bed—effectively caging my upper body between his hands.

My eyes zoom in on his exposed body parts.

Bulging muscles straining against his white crew neck t-shirt, yearning for my hands to grip them.

An Adams apple that slowly moves with each swallow he takes, begging for me to swipe my tongue against it.

A soft, pillowy lip that is currently caught between his teeth, asking for my mouth to nibble on them.

My eyes consume everything it sees, and then they slowly travel up to meet his.

_Shit_.

"Isabella."

He moans my name and the sound goes straight to the pit of my stomach, causing sweet tingles to spread downward. His voice is so low that I can barely hear him.

What I see in his eyes scares the hell out of me. I'm not sure how he does it—_maybe_ he was an acrobat in his former life—but, without leaning on my stomach, his lips touch mine. Softly, as if he's afraid to make any sudden moves.

"You always taste like sweet nectar," he mumbles on top of my lips.

The few words he utters leaves open _the_ one place I've been dying to dive into these last couple of weeks. Throwing caution to the wind, I pull his head down, part my lips, and take his tongue into my mouth.

_This feels like heaven._

He instantly takes control, and my body goes into overdrive. He rolls us so that we are both on our sides while he kisses me into oblivion. My underused libido doesn't want him to stop. I only want us to continue _this_ without any interruptions. I do _not _want to think too deeply about my actions or feelings.

The next couple of minutes are a blur. Clothes go flying every-which-way; he switches our position again so that I am now straddling him. I'm left in my jean pants, but am naked from the waist up.

His hands roam over my breasts as he kisses my neck and lowers his head to my breasts. First one, then the other. He devours them, and I'm in ecstasy—needing more from him. He palms my face and stares into my eyes. The color of his eyes reminds me of the moss found on the underside of shaded trees in the heart of a remote jungle.

"Don't stop," I urge, regretting having to speak but wanting to assure him that I wanted him to do exactly what he was doing.

I only want … no, I desperately need to feel. I don't want to talk or think. Words between us always mess things up.

"Isabella, please, let me just say …" he begs.

_Why does he feel the need to talk now? _

Our child also takes this opportunity tomake its presence known. Feeling the kicks between us, he runs his hand over my stomach. He smiles at me in awe, almost as if he's never felt a pregnant stomach before. But, that can't be right because surely he'd had felt Ruthie's pregnant stomach. I mean they lived together … so, surely, he was intimately familiar with a naked pregnant form.

The look in his eyes and the soft, unsure touches on my stomach tell me otherwise. And, for some reason, that makes me feel sorrowful for him.

Hands still on my stomach, he puts his forehead on mine as if to communicate some deep, dark secret he has. I'm sad when he closes his eyes, cutting me off from his soul.

"I want you. I want an 'us'."

I don't know what to say, so I stay quiet. Okay, I snort just a bit derisively at what he says.

"I … I love you," he sputters out. He has a proud look on his face—as if he's proud to have said the words.

Now, I'm scared again. My heart is racing a mile-a-minute, and it has nothing to do with our heated kisses—well, maybe a little.

"Did you hear me?" he asks, leaning backward and opening his eyes.

His eyes tell me more than I'm willing to analyze at this moment.

But, I'm certain that _he's_ certain that he loves me.

I exhale a pent up breath which diverts his eyes to my heaving breasts. In embarrassment, I try to cover them up—they like giant oranges in my mind's eye. He shakes his head, trapping my hands on top of the sheet while he lowers his head onto my breasts.

I take another deep breath and ignore my embarrassment.

"This ... this isn't about you loving me, Edward. This is about you _not_ loving me the way I deserve to be loved," I tell him courageously.

"What are you—"

"I knew it! I fucking knew it."

We both whip our heads to the door.

Standing in the doorway is a fuming Ruthie.

_And now, I want to die!_

She flings a brown bag toward us, but it lands on the floor.

"I'm done with this shit. You want him so much," she yells, pointing at me, "He's all yours little girl, but make sure you have on your big girl underwear because you're going to need them when he fucks you over." She hastily leaves the room, and we hear the slam of the door.

_What does she mean by that?_

The laughter starts in my belly, bubbling over until it finally erupts from my lips. It shakes my shoulders and everything on me jiggles with my action.

I laugh because if I don't, tears will flow. And, I've cried way too much. So, I laugh.

Really what else is there to do when an ex-girlfriend, who's also the mother of her ex-boyfriend's child, catches the newly impregnated woman, by said ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend, in his bed? Half-naked, I might add.

_That's a lot of damn exes_ I mentally think, as another humorless laughter threatens to spill forth again.

_This_ is too comical.

Our whole 'relationship', if it can be called such, is funny—tragically so.

Meeting him two days before I left for Ohio; writing for nine months, only to be told two days after he was shot that he was in a relationship ... by said live-in girlfriend. Then coming back to New York with hate on my lips but love stirring in my heart; sleeping with him the day I got engaged to another man. Getting pregnant by him, only to tell him the news as my hands valiantly try to keep him alive after we were robbed.

I laugh until tears stream down my face. Shaking my head, I palm his face. "Edward, this," I wave a hand between our bodies, "Just isn't meant to be."

There is no way that _we_—Edward and I—are a part of some great, big plan by destiny.

Not with our track record. Fate continues to deal us a losing hand, no matter how many times we try to stay in the game and hold on to our cards. I'm a little sad that there'll not be a 'we' and a few more tears roll down my face.

Neither of us acknowledges Ruthie's abrupt arrival or departure.

My laughter ceases, but the silent tears continue to course down my face. I don't know what else can save us.

He puts my hands back on his face, leans his forehead against mine, and whispers, "Didn't I tell you that we're like the Ghost orchid? Different than all the other flowers because we don't need exactly what _all _other flowers need to survive. The only thing we need is each other."

From the living room, I hear the low lyrics of Aretha Franklin's _I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You_.

The raw lyrics hammeraway at the last vestiges of any self-pride I have. I don't think about Ruthie and her hatred toward me. I bury the fact that Tanya and I are pregnant at the same time by the same man.

I consciously decide that _none _of these things supersedes my love for Edward.

What's he's just said about us being like the Ghost orchid flowers and the gut-wrenching lyrics to the song _are_ my truth, my only truth. And, it's been my truth is the moment I decided to write him back to him close to four years ago.

She's singing about my life. About how I, whole-heartedly, feel toward Edward.

Truthfully, I know he doesn't love me as he ought to, and will probably fuck up more than he should; but, I know I love him beyond reason … beyond measure … beyond comprehension. And, I'm willing to at least _try_ something … anything with him.

_I can't sleep at night. I guess I'll never be free._

_Since you got your hooks in me. _

_I ain't never loved a man (the way that I love you). _

I don't need a mirror to see that my eyes are conveying the exact sentiments as the song. I give up all my denials, fears, and concerns the instant I see his soft lips angle themselves toward mine.

[1] en . wikipedia wiki / Rubik's_Cube

**A/N:**

**I am very certain that I've either heard or read the line: "This isn't about you loving me. This is about you not loving me the way I deserve to be loved" before. I have diligently tried to search for it, to no avail. If anyone of you know the source for this line, please PM so that I can give the proper credit. Thanks in advance.**

As always, a special thanks to the beta of all betas, Sunflower Fran. Don't forget to check out the Angst contest, one of those beauties belongs to me. Please go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces), to listen to chapter titles and see the items mentioned.


	25. Chapter 24

Chapter 24 ~ I'm Gonna Make You My Wife (by The Whispers)

I'm gonna make you my wife

'Cause you're my everything

All my hopes and dreams come true

I can live my life with you

I'm gonna buy you some rings

And everywhere you go

Everyone will know that it's real

What you make me feel

Until there is no more of me

I will try to make you see that I will be

My all and all from here to eternity

Be my world eternally

Will have a child and watch it grow

Cross my heart and hope to die

If I ever make you cry

May I feel the pain that you feel inside

Take the blame if our love should die

I'm gonna make you my world

You be my morning light

The star at night or the air

I breathe

Cross my heart and hope to die

If I ever make you cry

May I feel the pain that you feel inside

And may I take the pain, if our love should die

I gonna make you my song

You'll be my symphony

My rhapsody, my line

You'll be my melody

My harmony, my child

You'll be the air I breathe

The birds and bees, my wife

You be the ...

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _I'm Gonna Make You My Wife _are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

**Monday, May 14, 1984**

Looking in the mirror, I adjust my tie again. Usually, Isabella gives me the perfect knot.When she does it, I look put-together and there's still enough space between the knot and my throat for me to breathe. When I do it, I'm constantly tugging at it because I feel like it's choking the shit out of me.

Expelling a breath, I give up my effort; no tie today.

Fuck it.

And, because I'm rambling in my head—something I rarely do—I realize that it's my nerves. I'm more nervous about what's in my pocket than anything else going on today.

"Daddy," the world's sweetest little voice interrupts the insanity inside my head.

Reaching almost to my knee is my other pride and joy, besides Isabella and Em; our four-year old baby girl, Ren. Actually, it's Renesmee Carlie Cullen. Isabella decided to honor her mother and my grandmother by melding their first names, but her middle name is my homage to one of my favorite singers, Carly Simon. Picking her up, I walk us over to the dresser and sit her atop **it** so that I can adjust the barrettes in her pigtails.

I smile as I see her toothy grin. She makes me very happy—as much as Em and Isabella makes me happy.

"Are you ready to see Mommy?"

"Uh huh. She walks cross bigs stages, right, Daddy?"

"That's right, baby girl."

Today is Isabella's graduation from Kingington Teacher's College—we are all so proud of her. Even though it took us awhile to get where we are today, it was worth the battle.

****FLASHBACK — Monday, March 3, 1980****

I push away from the desk with more force than necessary. Today is my first day back since the robbery in the alley.

_Damn, that was back in September '79_.

Shaking my head, I realize that I haven't been in the precinct in six months. And, now that I am back, I am relegated to desk duties.

Me!

Sitting at a desk all day.

Doing bullshit paperwork! Well, it's not quitebullshit, but you know what I'm saying. I'm a cop. I should be out on the streets, not sharpening pencils and filing.

Standing to my feet, I'm reminded instantaneously why I'm behind a desk. I groan, rubbing my side. The doctor told me that I'd lost a huge portion of my large intestine, that godforsaken bullet is still lodged inside me, and the cherry-on-top-of-the-cake is that I'll always have to watch what I consume. If I overeat, I could land in the hospital with serious digestive problems, requiring emergency medical attention.

_I should call Isabella and kill some time talking with her_ I think to myself, as I walk around my desk in the hopes of stretching my legs.

She's been out of work since she and I became official—January twenty-ninth.

At first, she'd complained about lack of money, but I told her we'd figure it out. She needed to rest and I'd needed to bond with both my girls. We still don't know what we're having, but I'm hoping for a girl. Money is tight, but we make it work. It's not like she has an extensive amount of debt—she doesn't have to pay rent since she lives with her parents. She has emphatically refused to live with me, which I think is a load of crap, but I haven't been able to convince her otherwise, as yet. I give her what I can —after I pay my bills—from the disability checks I receive from the police department, as well as the small savings I have.

Hands in the air, hovering over the phone receiver to make the call, the phone rings instead.

"This is Cullen."

I hear screams in the background—which sound like Isabella's, and instantly, I'm on high-alert. Then, I hear her begging for the nurse to hurry to the house, because she isn't going to the hospital.

"Hey! What's going on over there," I yell frantically.

"You have to come. Get here quickly, Edward," her mother tells me, sounding like she's close to tears.

I'm not sure if the phone makes it back to its base, but I grab my personal items and head out the door. Over my shoulder I shout to Tamika, the new secretary, "Having a baby, have to go! Tell the captain."

Reaching Isabella's street, my heart is at my throat, and I'm both fearful and anxious about what's happening inside. I see my feet moving, but nothing actually registers in my brain. I'm not sure who lets me in the house, but I do notice that Harim and Mr. Swan are sitting on the living room couch; both looking like I feel—concerned and anxious. Screams come from upstairs, and I take the steps two at a time, even though I really shouldn't.

"Isabella! Isabella," I scream, sprinting toward the place where the excruciating sounds are coming from.

"Edward ... back here …"

Her words are abruptly cut by a high-pitched scream that I _know_ has just broken any established sound waves.

My feet take my body toward the screams. The door is partially opened. Walking through it, I see Renee, holding Isabella's hand while the nurse is putting on gloves.

"Izzy, we can't wait any longer, you have to push, sweetie," the nurse tells her.

_Push? _

_She __can't push;__we're not due for two or so weeks._

"Edward," she exhales, holding out a hand toward me with her brow puckered in what looks like pain.

"Are you the father?"

"Yes," Renee, Isabella and I all speak over each other, answering the nurse.

"Okay, you're going to hold her leg back as far back as they'll go, and we're going to get this baby out," she instructs.

I nod my head dumbly, and I'm certain I look like a deer caught in a car's headlights.

"It'll be all right, sonny, I've done this a million times," she reassures me.

And that's when I look at the nurse and realize that she's, at the very least, seventy years old. I open my mouth to ask if she's equipped to handle this, but Isabella's cries force my attention onto her and I hurry to do the one job the nurse gave to me. As I near the bed, even writhing in pain and blowing quick breaths through her slightly chapped lips, I can't help but notice how breathtaking she is. Briefly, I look at her—and she opens her beautiful eyes the moment my gaze lands on her … _as if _she knows I sought out her eyes—and I mouth my love, which elicits a small smile, before it changes into a grimace.

I can't tell you how long I hold her feet, encouraging her to push or how often Renee express her regret in not taking Isabella to the hospital as she'd wanted to do. But, eventually, the cries of a baby stop Renee's gripes and my own words of frustration.

"It's a girl. You have a girl," thenurse states, placing the white, squirming baby on top of Isabella's stomach.

"We have a girl," I whisper.

Looking at Isabella, she looks very tired, but there's a ghost of a smile on her lips.

"Baby, you gave me a baby girl," I tell her again like an idiot.

Somehow I'm in a seat by the bed and I am handed our—_my_—daughter, who's wrapped tightly in the blanket. I'm in awe of this little person. Looking down, I open the blanket so I can take an inventory of all her body parts. _Good. Ten toes and ten fingers_. She looks perfect and smells heavenly. I see the nurse continue to take care of Isabella, but I can't focus on anything but our daughter.

_I have a daughter._

_Shit._

_I have a daughter._

_What the __hell am I going__to do with a daughter?_

_I'm going to have to get bigger guns and more bullets. Maybe, we need to move to—_

"Edward," Isabella interrupts my near internal panic with sleep etched in her voice.

Our child must be tuned to Isabella's voice, because her eyes open, and I'm pulled into eyes that remind me of a freshly mowed lawn.

_Oh wow_. I'm overwhelmed by the abundance of love I have for my daughter the instant I see eyes that are so much like Momma's and mine.

I glance toward the woman that just made me the world's happiest man, and hope my gaze tell her how much I love her.

"Are you ever going to let me see her?" Shejokes, grinning.

Carefully rising with my precious cargo, I walk the few paces to the bed and sit on the edge.

"You did good, Isabella." I smile, looking down at one-half of me. "She's as perfect and beautiful as you are."

She runs her hand atop the bed cover and squeezes my fingers. There are tears in her eyes and seeing them—despite their tiredness glaring back at me—my love for her deepens. I hand her our daughter, giving them an opportunity to bond.

"So, what's her name?" Renee asks from over my shoulder as she tries to peek at the bundled baby.

"Renesmee **...**" Isabella starts, then looks to me, and I nod my head, "Carlie Cullen."

A couple of weeks ago, we'd gone through a list of names we were both comfortable with. We'd readily decided on Edward Anthony Masen Cullen II for a boy. But, we struggled with a girl's name. Eventually, she convinced me that Renesmee would be a good first name, but only after compromising that I would pick the middle name.

"Rene … huh?" Renee questions.

Laughing, Isabella responds, "It's pronounced Ruh-nez-may, Mom. It's a mixture of your first name and Edward's grandmother's."

"Oh … that'sreally different. I'm just going to call her Ren. I'm never going to remember all of that," she replies with a hand wave and a chuckle.

Isabella and I just continue smiling at each other.

****END FLASHBACK****

**Monday, May 14, 1984**

I'm broken out of my trip down memory lane when a small, warm hand touches my face. Looking down, I notice Nessie squirming about.

"Daddy, I gots to potty."

Smiling, I put her on my hip and walk to the bathroom. She slides down from me which is now her favorite pastime—as well her using me as her personal, jungle gym—and opens the door. I attempt to follow her inside, but she stops me.

"No, Daddy, you stays there," she tells me, pointing to the wall facing the bathroom.

_My baby_.

Growing up so quickly. She's so unlike her mother in many ways—even at four-years old, her disposition, personality, and forthrightness are all traits she shares with me. Whereas, I feel like I'm breaking into Ft. Knox, _every single time_ I attempt to get inside Isabella's head. One particular conversation reminds me about that particular struggle that I still have today.

**** FLASHBACK — Saturday, March 14, 1981 ****

It's hard to believe my baby girl is one-year old.

I'm overwhelmed by the small crowd gathered in the Swan's backyard to celebrate our girl. Today is unseasonably warm for upstate New York, so we switched her indoor celebration to a backyard event. Renee went overboard with party streamers, balloons, and other party festivities—as I knew she would. Charles pulled out his grill and is being a gracious host. The party isn't elaborate or anything—there was cake, ice cream, hot dogs for the few kids, potato salad, macaroni and cheese, a garden salad, and grilled barbecued chicken for the adults.

Even though Ren's birthday was on March tenth, we'd plan to celebrate it today because I was unable to get off work on her actual birth date. A quick scan around the backyard, I see Captain Luger, Ren's godfather, talking with Charles, and Renee attends to the other guests. The guest of honor is running around with another little girl as her ever-present protector, Charles, keeps tabs on her between his talk with the captain, and manning the grill. Surprisingly—Isabella continues to express this particular emotion based on Charles' actions as a father—he is a very good grandfather toRen. Isabella has commented that he acts like Ren is his only grandchild, despite him having a total of five.

Everyone looks like they are having fun, but I don't see my heartbeat anywhere around.

_Where's Isabella? _

She's not in the backyard, so I guess she's inside the house. Something has been off with her for quite some time now, but she refuses to tell me what it is. There's only one place she'd be right now, so I head toward the kitchen.

Coming behind her, I put my hands around her waist then drop my chin on her head—as she continues washing the dishes.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"I know you, baby. Why won't just you tell me?"

"Like I said—" she begins, draining the excess water from the plate in her hand.

I still her movements by putting the plate on top of the counter and then slowly spin her around to face me. Instantly, her eyes find my buttons interesting. I need to see her eyes. If I see them, I'll know my suspicion is correct.

Tilting her head upward, her expressive eyes tell me everything her lips are unwilling to: she's concerned about something that is extremely important to her.

"Hey, we promisedwe would always talk, right?"

Her gaze averts mine again. "I am talking."

"No, you're avoiding. I can't fix it, if you won't tell me about it." I repeat the same words I told her the day she'd told me she was pregnant.

Finally, after what seems like forever, her eyes liftslightly, however, their aim is now on my shoulder.

"Um … the thing is," she begins nervously, "Now that Nessie is one, I'dreallyliketogobacktoschool."

I chuckle at her rushed words and the blush traveling quickly down her neck. "Baby, slow down. I didn't hear that last part."

She expels a breath and meets my eyes.

I lift her up, and the feeling of her straddling me makes me just want to be inside her. I try to rein in my thoughts as I put her on top of the counter since I'm still on a mission to get to the bottom of those jumbled thoughts. Plus, in her new position she won't have to crane her neck as much to look at me which I know is uncomfortable for her.

We are both silent as we stare at each other. I can feel the heated warmth emanating from her apex, which momentarily distracts me and I am reminded that it's the one other place, beside her lips, that brings me to my happy place. But, really, everything about Isabella brings me to my happy place—watching her read, watching her tuck our daughter into bed at night, hell, even brushing her teeth. As long as it involves Isabella, she can instantly turn an awful moment into a treasured memory, for me.

All of a sudden, she's shy again.

I dip my eyes to her level. "Hey, it's only me here. Talk to me," I beg, pulling on the trapped bottom lip that her teeth is holding hostage.

"The thing is … well, the thing is … I called Kingington Teacher's College, and they've held my place from last year … and, um, I really, _really_ want to go back to school."

"All right."

_Now __that's all__settled … _

She pushes at my chest just as I am leaning down to get a taste from her lips.

"Edward! This is important to me!" She tries to scramble out of my arms.

Backing away, I look at her.

_Really_ look at her.

Her eyes have a determined gleam in them, but something is still lurking behind that determination, as well.

_Fear? _

_Embarrassment?_

That's it. She's embarrassed.

I let her down so she could take the moment to herself that she seems to need.

"What aren't you telling me?" I ask her turned back.

Spinning around, I see that her cheeks are wet. "I … my parents can't afford to send me. Now, that Charles is retired …"

Leaning backward on the counter, I wonder aloud, even when that was not my intention. "So what am I … chopped liver? [1]

_She should know that I would do anything to help her become a teacher, right? _

Whatever she needs, I'll do it.

_She should know that, right? _

The instant her eyes drop to the floor, I know that she doesn't realize or believe how deeply I love her.

_Maybe_ it's all the shit we endured to get to this point. But, despite them … she _should _know I would move heaven and earth for her. As she continues to look at the floor, I know she has no clue.

No clue about how I truly feel about her.

A while back, she'd made the statement that I'll never, ever forget, as long as I live: '_this isn't about you loving me, this is about you not loving me the way I deserve to be loved_.'

But, I thought we'd move past that. I thought I'd done everything in the last year and a half to show her that I do, and could, love her, not in my own way, but in the way that was meaningful and tangible to her.

Walking to the spot where she seems rooted, I look at her downturned head, and I realize that I seriously did a number on her. If she doesn't know her value to _me_, I've not done such a bang-up job as I thought. Gripping her chin in my hand, I force her head to look up.

_She should always walk with her head held high—and I was going to help make that a constant reality for her_.

"Baby, don't you know you're my 'at last'?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but, I still her words by leaning my head down, and gently mouthing, "I love you. If you want to go back to school, I'll make it happen."

****END FLASHBACK****

**Monday, May 14, 1984**

The flush of the toilet breaks my reverie.

Moments later, I hear the water running_—thank God__she remembers to wash her hands—_and the door opens.

"Readys, Daddy."

I laugh because Ren has the same lisp that Em had at this age.

"You mean to say, I'm ready, don't you, baby girl?" I ask, grasping her hand as we head toward the front door.

She tries to repeat what I've said, but it just comes out the same. Squeezing her head, I assure her pronunciation, and effort to correct it, is okay. Before we head outside, I grab my keys, sunglasses, and wallet that are by the door. We head toward my parked car, and I hear Ren trying to sing her favorite nursery rhyme, Baa Baa Black Sheep.

As I'm about to make a left onto Brigham Place, I look in the rearview mirror, and see that Ren is fast asleep in her car seat. Not even two minutes on the road and she's sleeping already. Thinking about how car rides are Ren's kryptonite, I mentally laugh at my own joke. I unquestionably love the little girl in my back seat, and would do anything for her, just like her mother.

**** FLASHBACK — Friday, September 10, 1982****

Even though Ren normally is cared for by Charles and Renee, on days when they have errands to run or go out of town, a neighbor acts as Ren's back-up sitter.

Like today.

They left yesterday for a two-week vacation to visit family in South Carolina. Because I work odd hours, a neighbor kept Ren overnight. Her grandparents wanted to take her with them, but Isabella wants all three of us to celebrate her upcoming, twenty-second birthday, together at her college with her.

_I wonder where this sitter is?_

I've been pressing the neighbor's buzzer for the last ten minutes, and no one is answering. Since it's a nice day, I take a gamble that maybe she's in her backyard. Renee has told me that this neighbor runs a year-round babysitting service in her home. Walking toward the back, I hear variouschildren's activities. Her backyard has really old, wooden slats where you can see through some of the boards. As I peep through one, I see Ren—who looks like she has not had a bath in two days—tug on the skirt of a woman, pointing in the distance at something. Another little girl comes over to them, crying and pointing at Ren. The next thing the woman does angers the hell out of me. She smacks my baby girl in the face.

Instantly, I straighten up, banging on the slats, hoping to get someone's attention. The gate loosens from my rough-housing and I forcefully push it wider, calling out Ren's name in the process. She's still crying from the smack, but she runs to me in a flash. Picking her up, I wonder what in the hell she's been doing, to cause her to be so filthy. Her pull-up is thoroughly soaked as if she has not been changed in a few hours.

_Okay, Cullen calm the hell down_, I tell myself.

"Daddy," she yells through her tears.

I walk over to backpacks that are haphazardly thrown down on the grass and look for hers. But, there arelike a million down there, or so it looks to me in my haste to leave this hell hole. I'm too pissed to look through all of them.

_Fuck it_.

She has stuff at my apartment. Walking toward the gate, someone screams to get my attention.

"Hey, you can't—"

I whirl my head around at the voice. Whatever she sees on my face, stops her cold—her speech and her movements. I stalk over to her, count to ten, and then inhale, so I don't _accidentally_ shoot her in the goddamn head.

"If you ever, so much as lay one," I whisper-yell, biting my tongue, so I don't curse in front of my kid, "hand on my child again …"

The fright I intend her to have shows up on her face, and she takes a cautious step backward.

_Good_.

Over my shoulder, I tell her that Ren will not be back … ever! I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to do about work, but baby girl comes first.

Three days later, when Ren and I take the three-hour drive to Kingington Teacher's College, Isabella voices her concern about our childcare options. I assure her not to worry and convince her to enjoy her birthday because I'll handle it.

As we prepare to leave, as usual, Isabella has tears in her eyes. She straps Ren in her car seat, kissing all over her face, and eliciting a round of baby giggles that makes my heart soar.

Standing, she sighs. I _know_ that sigh. "I'm sorry I'm so far away from you guys."

"It's okay, baby. Nothing we can't handle." I wave away her concerns.

She sniffs as she hides her face in my chest. Folding her into an embrace, I know what she needs. I wait for her next words.

"I don't even feel like a mom. You, my mother, and even my damn father are doing all the things _I_ should be," she bemoans.

She's been here a year now, and this is the constant line she keeps expressing to me as we prepare to leave. We decided that she's lost enough time, so instead of coming home to Upper Salem in the summer months, she stays on campus and takes classes, as well. She has not worked since January 29, 1980—that's another concern for her, which I try to assure her is not an issue.

Refuting her fear about not feeling like a mother is not as easy as the lack of job issue. I know that whatever words of comfort I tell her will not truly give her back the moments she misses daily with Ren. All I can do is try to convey the impact of her achieving her professional goal will have on our daughter.

"You're exactly where you should be," I reassure her, rubbing her lower back.

More sniffles. "I just miss my family. And …"

This 'and' I know _all_ about, too.

She's concerned that I'll stray.

That I'll revert backward ... to the days when I was with Ruthie.

Over time, I've shared my theory about my initial draw to Ruthie which was my subconscious search for a mother figure, especially in light of learning about my real 'mother' right before I moved from Westerland. To further complicate my relationship with Ruthie was the fact that I never had a father to show me how to be a faithful man—everything I've learned about relationships are all trial and error. That may seem like a cop-out to you, but it's the truth.

But with Isabella … I don't know how to describe it.

_She_ makes me wantto be faithful to her because that's what she deserves.

And, _I_ want to be faithful to _her_.

So, since she's been at Kingington, I've kept my dick in my pants or in my hands, and have held my head forward whenever I see a pretty face. It hasn't been easy, but whatever … I know Isabella would probably shoot my dick off with my own gun, if I made another dumb mistake.

"Isabella, you're it for me. I keep telling you … sex I can get anywhere, you know," I drill into her head, clutching her chin upward. "But, what you and I share, I'll never find that anyplace else, and I don't even want to look." I go for her luscious lips that _always_ call out to me.

Catching her breath, when I release her lips, she sighs. "I love you."

Her eyes tilt up at the corner, and she's wearing the smile that makes my heart race.Her smile makes me do the same in return.

"Not as much as I love you."

As we say our goodbyes, I have faith that we'll be okay; that we _will_ make it through this temporary, physical distance, and we'll come out stronger than ever.

****END FLASHBACK****

**Monday, May 14, 1984**

Listening to Isabella give the valedictorian speech at the university's commencement, I'm glad I decided to buy the ring that's now burning a hole in my pocket a few days after her birthday in '82.

I mentally hum a few bars of The Whispers' _I'm Gonna Make You My Wife. _I realize how true the words are for me.

_I'm gonna make you my wife_

'_Cause you're my everything_

_All my hopes and dreams come true_

_I can live my life with you_

She's already my 'at last'.

Now, I simply need to find the right time to ask her to be my forever.

[1] www . knowyourphrase phrase-meanings / What - Am - I - Chopped - Liver . html (remove spaces)

**A/N:**

I need to thank Sunflower Fran for her sharp beta'ing skills. For any of you that read and voted in the 2013 TLS Angst Contest, thank you and you can check out my expanded entry, _irrelevant_, if you so choose to do. There are a couple of more contests, I plan on entering, so keeps your ears open and your eyes ready to read

Don't forget to check out the blog luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for chapter title songs, looks and much more.


	26. Chapter 25

Chapter 25 ~ I've Been Loving You Too Long (by Otis Redding)

I've been loving you too long to stop now

There were time and you want to be free

My love is growing stronger, as you become a habit to me

Oh, I've been loving you a little too long

I don't wanna stop now, oh

With you, my life,

Has been so wonderful

I can't stop now

There were times and your love is growing cold

My love is growing stronger as our affair, affair grows old

I've been loving you a little too long, long

I don't want to stop now

Oh, oh, oh

I've been loving you a little bit too long

I don't wanna stop now

No, no, no

Don't make me stop now

No baby

I'm down on my knees

Please, don't make me stop now

I love you, I love you,

I love you with all of my heart

And I can't stop now

Don't make me stop now

Please, please don't make me stop now

Good God Almighty, I love you

I love you, I love you, I love you

I love you, I love you

I love you in so many different ways ...

I love you in so many different ways ...

**DISCLAIMER: **_Twilight,_ and the characters of _Twilight_, belongs to the creative genius we know and love, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. The lyrics of _I've Been Loving You Too Long _are owned by its songwriters. The plot is all mine as well as any new characters introduced.

A very special thanks to Hoodfabulous for pre-reading and giving me some much needed pointers in writing my very first lemon. Check out her just one of her work, _Dirty South Drug Wars_.

**Saturday, July 27, 1985**

"So, are you happy?"

"Immensely," I reply, closing my eyelids so that the make-up artist can finish.

Opening my eyes, I smile my thanks at her beautiful handiwork just as Rosie says, "I'm glad for you, Bird. This is a long time coming."

I nod my head in agreement.

I met Edward on June 17, 1976, and here we are nine years later about to pledge our lives to each. As soon as the make-up artist leaves the room, Rosie and I look at each other, and the sounds that come from our mouths could rival the loudest squeaking rabbit. To an outsider, they probably wouldn't know that we are both twenty-five year old teachers.

"Oh, my God, Rosie, I'm getting married!" I scream, twirling around a little yet mindful of the massive amount of tulle under my dress.

_I'm really, truly getting married … to Edward 'Upper Salem's Most Sought After Bachelor' Cullen. _

"Calm down. Geesh, you're acting like a kid," she chides me with an impish grin, adjusting her champagne-colored birdcage hat.

Couple of knocks on the closed en-suite door puts an end to my childish giddiness. I smooth out some imaginary wrinkles from my dress before sitting on the couch like the lady I am supposed to be, especially on a day like today. "Come in," I beckon the person at the door.

The door slowly opens revealing a beaming Nessie, a dapper looking Em, and my mother behind them, as they enter the en-suite. I twirl my finger in the air silently requesting Nessie to turn—which she does—so I can make sure that her ribbon is still in place. Just then the random thought that I'm the only member of the family that uses Nessie as a nickname enters my brain. For the life of me, I'm not even sure where or when I picked that name up.

Em smooth out an invisible wrinkle—mimicking my actions from a few moments ago—in his suit jacket while he look as if he's swallowed a huge dollop of sunshine judging by the smile on his lips. I give him an air hand clap which results in a smirk, just like the one his father wears from time to time, and a mock bow.

"Oh," my mother gushes, sniffing, "You look so beautiful, Izzy."

"Mom, you're ruining your make-up," I complain, handing her a piece of tissue.

Nessie gives the tissue to her Mama Renee, as she calls her, and then rushes back into my arms.

I just can't seem to help it. You're gorgeous. To think, my baby is getting married ..." she whispers, reaching her hand for my cheek, which I wisely back away from.

"Mom ..."

"Mama Renee …" Nessie calls mimicking me.

"Okay, okay, I'll stop," she promises, blowing very unladylike into the tissue.

A throat clears from the hallway. "May I come in?"

"Grandfather," Nessie squeals, running over to him.

I notice that Mom and Rosie carry on a silent communication before they collect Nessie and Em as they leave through the door Charles entered.

We both don't say anything for quite some. I'm not sure what his reasons for his silence are, but I'm mute because I don't know what to say to him.

"Ah … you're really …" he starts out awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, "you do look beautiful, Izzy."

"Thanks," I mutter, looking down and finding unusual interest in the carpet.

"You're a mom—a very good one; a teacher, and now, you're about to be a wife." He stops talking as if he's seems to collect his thoughts … or nerves. "I'm really proud of you."

_Wow … just wow._ I have no words beyond that meager, unintelligent and nondescript 'wow' as I contemplate his praise.

He comes closer to me, but my eyes are glued to the carpet. "I know you … ah, that you won't repeat the mistakes I made as a spouse … and as a parent," he finishes uncomfortably.

I whip my head up in surprise.

_Compliments and an acknowledgement of error—all in one conversation … from Charles Swan!_

The sentiments he shares with me plus the unspoken words that seem to be lodged in his throat compels my eyes to his. Now, I can't look away from him. There are things that I want to say in response, and it looks like there are more things he wishes to express, but, we both don't acknowledge any of that.

Smiling weakly at each other, because, _this_—being the non-communicative father and the unresponsive daughter—defines us. I would like to hope _this _is the start of something differently for us, but I'd never place all my betting chips on Charles … outside of doing only what pleases _Charles_. The overpowering smell of alcohol on his breath quickens the end of our intimate moment and stomps down my previous hope.

I extend my hand to him, and he pulls me up from my sitting position. Breathing out exasperatedly, I tell him, "Let's go get me married then." _And, away from your hellhole of a house,_ I silently think.

**A few hours later ...**

"Introducing Mr. and Mrs. Edward Anthony Masen Cullen," the master of ceremony announces.

The excitement bubbling in my stomach threatens to spill forth. Edward squeezes my hand, winking at me as the double doors to the reception hall open. Stepping forward, I am met with a sea of people standing and clapping. Momentarily, I note that the place looks radiant—flowers cascading from centerpieces, giving off a fragrant aroma, as well as well-placed votive candles creating the perfect atmosphere. _This is just as I imagined it! _ The end of the handclapping pulls my attention from further perusal of the venue and back toward my husband.

_Our first dance._

A smile is etched on my face—has been since this morning— as I look into his face, reflecting a similar expression as the beginning strands of the music starts to play.

I'm not sure what he's chosen for us because he wanted sole responsibility over the music we will hear tonight. Gathering me in his arms, I feel protected, loved and honored. He gives me alittle whirl and I'm grateful Rosie suggested I wear something differently during the reception. The darkening tint of his eye color tells me he likes my choice.

Pulling me back toward him, he whispers, "You are too beautiful for words."

Otis Redding's soulful voice comes on and I'm happy I didn't fight for control over this, too. He's chosen well. _I've Been Loving You too Long_ is an appropriate song describing how _much_ I love this man. When he grips my hands, I'm reminded about all that he's consistently shown me since January 29, 1980, and I know this song succinctly expresses his feelings, as well.

The other people in the room fade away, and it's only us; Edward and I, staring lovingly into each other's eyes as he clasps my left hand. His right hand is on the small of my back, and I feel the powerful heat of him pressing into my stomach.

"Can you feel how much I want you, Izzy?" he moans.

Leaning back slightly, I can't form a coherent thought, let alone a spoken word, so I mutely nod my head.

"How about you and I head upstairs to work on a son, hmm?" He grins that sexy grin of his.

**A short while later …**

"Come on, scaredy cat. It's only Edward. Get your ass out of this bathroom," I plead to myself, facing the mirror.

We've been inside our hotel room about two hours now. He took a quick shower, and then suggested I take a long bath.

Even though we both desired to leave after our first dance, we didn't. We stayed, celebrating with our family and friends as we ate, drank, and danced the night away. When it was time to leave, Nessie gave us a hard time, but Edward calmed her down with a forceful lecture and a sweet promise of them returning to the hotel by themselves. _Him and his baby girl_, I laugh silently. Sometimes, I wonder what he'll do when she decides to date! _Now,_ I know I'm nervous if instead of leaving the bathroom, I'm imagining my six-year old's potential first date.

_Come on Izzy, leave this bathroom._

The mirror, which is not my friend, reveals too much and does nothing to hide all my imperfections, including wider hips and a slightly fleshy stomach. The itty bitties are not so little anymore thanks to Nessie. I've shaved away all possible body hair. Turning around, there's no help for the massivity that winks at me in the mirror. I face the mirror again, because if I continue to look at my rear end, I'll never leave this bathroom.

_I really hope this shawl thing covers back there_.

Pinching my cheeks to add some color, I force myself to take the steps toward the locked bathroom door. Tonight is so nerve wracking, partly because Edward and I have not slept together in over a month, no easy feat with my sex-crazed man, but I wanted tonight to be special.

Hand on the doorknob; I feel it jiggle from the other end.

"Izzy, what's the matter?"

"Um … nothing," I reply, unlocking the door.

Opening it, I step forward. He's lit a few candles whichgive justthe right amount of light for us to see each other without breaking the romantic ambience he's set. If I'm not mistaken, I think I hear Teddy Pendergrass' _Turn off the Lights_ playing very softly. He steps back from the door, tugging me along with him.

"Oh, my ..." He circles around me.

"You …" I clear my throat. "You like?"

"Do I like?" he questions from behind me, pressing himself into my backside. "What does this tell you?"

Chuckling, I reply, "I think Mr. Cullen approves."

"Mr. Cullen most certainly approves." My hair is swept to the side and I feel a sensuous kiss on my nape. "Can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure," I mumble nervously, wanting him to continue the kiss.

"I'm going to sit over there," He points to the lounge chair, "And I want you to slowly, ever so slowly, walk over to me, okay?" He's now facing me once again.

"I guess," I squeak out, biting my bottom lip.

He uses his thumb to release my lip. Rubbing it, he pleads, "It's only us, baby. Relax."

I nod my head, and he kisses the corner of my lips. I watch him walk away in only his pajama pant—his usual sleep attire I see him in when Nessie and I spend nights at his apartment. The muscles in his back bunch togetherwonderfully, and cause a tingling sensation to spread from my stomach to the rest of my body.

_Sometimes, I really can't believe he's all mine_.

His laughter from the chair lets me know that once again, I've inadvertently let him into my inner thoughts. There's not much light where he is and I'm not sure what I look like from his vantage point. Squelching down my anxiety over the fifteen pounds I have left from my pregnancy, I walk confidently over to my man … to _my husband_. With each step I take, his eyes turn the darkest shade I've ever seen them, and that emboldens me.

I've kept on my heels from the reception. So by the time I reach him, he's eye level to my waist and he's leaning back in the slightly, curved lounge chair. My eyes drift from his face to his well-defined, abdominal muscles, and then to the very prominent hard-on he's sporting. _That_ catches my eye, and I bend to grab a hold of it. But he sits upward, forcing me backward a little. He stands, raises my chin, and slowly unties my cape-like covering. He drops his gaze to my heaving breasts.

Slowly, his gaze lifts to my eyes. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

I hear the swish sound the fabric makes as it drops onto the hardwood floor. I'm tongued-tied, so I do the next best thing: I move my head side to side.

He grins. "Well, I plan on showing you." He sits on the ottoman in front of the lounge chair.

He pulls me closer to him; his hands on my knees feel so warm and so good. His fingers travel up my thighs and hips, caressing them.

"If I've never told you before, I really fucking love your body _now_," he whispers, groaning aloud. But, he has … he's constantly told me not to worry about the weight I've not shed.

I feel his hands go underneath the lacy lingerie to cup my backside. His fingertips run along the crease, where the back of my legs meets my butt.

"These …" he admits, shaking the globes in his hand, "Are my new favorite parts on your body."

As he's speaking, his hot, sweet breath escapes from his lips and warms my stomach. He pulls me even closer to him.

"And this …" he points to the place between my hips—directly at my apex—groaning once again, "This is _my_ heaven."

I'm transfixed by his movements … he reaches underneath, unsnapping the two buttons that holdthe garment in place just as Otis Redding belts out the song we danced to a few hours ago.

He leans into my stomach, reciting some verses: _my love is growing stronger, as you become a habit to me. Oh, I've been loving you a little too long. I don't wanna stop now._

"Isabella Marie Cullen, I can't … I won't _ever _stop loving you."

Hands in his hair, I grip it, forcing his head upward. "I love you too … no one else, Edward."

He abruptly stands up, switching our position, sitting me on the ottoman. The song continues to play as he takes off one shoe, then the other, dropping them noisily onto the floor with a thud. He trails his long, lean fingers up my calf muscle, and I'm embarrassed because some of my essence is leaking onto the ottoman's leather. As if he knows what my body is doing, he leans his head down between my thighs, forcing them wider, and inhales like he's a dying man.

He chuckles. "All this, for me?"

Before I can answer, I feel his fingers parting my lips, and then his cool tongue takes a lick at my hot center. If I'm not mistaken, I hear a 'mmm' sound as if he's eating a tasty meal, but my mind ceases to work the more his devious tongue assaults me. His tongue trails up to my clit, sucking it … pulling it, and then circling around it, ever so tantalizingly slow.

Minor sounds are stuck in my throat as his movements reduce me to rubble; my body melts at his ministrations. Head leaned backward, I feel every sucking motion he unleashes on my clit as he pays extra close attention to the littlest part of my body … as if he didn't have it before, he now has all of my attention—and that seems to be his desire. One of my legs is thrown over his shoulder, at his command, as he simultaneously inserts two fingers. I feel _and_ hear everything, and I know I am leaking like a faucet.

In and out …

The movement of his fingers spiral me along the path only he's been master of these many years.

In and out—his movements inside my innermost, intimate channel pushes me closer to the edge as he continues to suck on my now engorgedbundle of nerves … the epicenter of my building orgasm.

"Don't … ah; yes … don't … please …"

As if telling me he has no intention of doing what my befuddled brain is trying to demand—that of him _not _stopping—he grips my thigh, harder … tighter, in his hands, pushing his middle and ring finger _all_ the way inside of me.

_Shit! I'm so close_. And my body tells him just that by gushing some more.

I grab his head closer to where I want him most … where my need is the greatest, and try to wiggle his fingers out of my body—because I don't need his fingers, just the constant suction of his lips and swirl of his tongue, and I will come undone any minute. But, he's not having any of that.

He drops my leg and really goes to town. His fingers exit my body as he uses both hands to spread my lips farther apart. Looking down, I can see my clit is peeping out of its hiding place. And without seeing Edward's face, I know he's smirking. He lips tenderly but confidently suck on my clit harder and I can't hold back.

"Damn it … right … oh, yes … right … please don't … keep going," I incoherently beg.

He doesn't stop.

My stomach muscles tighten as I smash myself onto his face, grinding into it … requesting more … needing more. And, he gives me more … the tidal wave that began in my toes, erupts and leaves my body gloriously.

_I am euphoric._

_I'm in heaven._

He's unleashed the mother lode of all orgasms from my body. He continues to suck, wanting more from me, but I've got nothing left. I just want to go to sleep. I squirm out of his reach because the sensation is too much for me.

If he continues, I feel like I will …

"Give me every goddamn drop, Izzy. Your husband commands it," he roughly tells me, latching his lips further onto me.

His directive and forceful manipulations push me over the precipice—as if that first fall was but a slight push—and my body gives him the _more_ he desires … the _more _he demands. The ottoman is the recipient of the aftereffects of my orgasm. But, Edward is selfish. He drags my butt toward his face so that he can lap up my essence.

"Damn …" I yell, landing onmy back on the lounge chair.

Satisfied that he's gotten 'every goddamn drop', he peppers my inner thigh with kisses, slowly rising above me, and pulling me with him. But, I'm a rag doll; my legs are useless body parts right now.

_Stick a fork in me because I'm done. _

I'm not sure if he hears me or not—and frankly, I don't give a shit right at this minute.

"I'm not done with you yet." His voice is gravelly, and his lower half of his face is covered with my juices.

Seeing his face and smelling me on him … it's all so erotic and taboo at the same time. My tongue leaves my mouth of its own accord, and I just _have to_ slowly lick my tongue along his jawline. The taste of myself is heady, and goes straight to my pussy walls which involuntarily clench on their own … desperate for him to be inside of it.

Hands on his face, our lips crash into each other as our tongue dance together over the song that is now playing. I feel his hands on my back, my butt, and the back of my thighs. He ends the kiss, picking me up bridal style as he walks us over to the king-size bed.

On my back, I look up at him, and I see the overwhelming desire for me in his eyes, in his labored breaths, in the tightness of his muscles, and between his legs peeking above the drawstring pants.

"I'd rather this," he whispers, pulling the strap away from my body, "join the other … on the floor." He grins, taking off the lingerie, as I try to help him with my jelly-like arms and legs.

Keeping his eyes on mine, he places his hand on the ends of the string on his pant. Seeing his intent, I lean forward and undo the strings. His pants slip easily over his lean, muscled hips and onto the floor. In front of me is his bulging, deeply veined length that pleases me beyond words. In all our years together, he's never allowed my lips to touch him intimately, but tonight, I'm determined.

I grab his hips, silently encouraging him forward. He takes a few, tentative steps. He looks hard and soft at the same time. Without a thought, I lean toward him, pulling the head into my mouth. He rewards me with a deep, guttural groan, and as I peek up at him, his head drops backward. There's no way I can take all of him into my mouth, so I use my hands to help me. Going off pure instinct and a need to please him as he has pleased me, I continue to use my lips as a vacuum, going up and down as far as my mouth can.

"Isabella … shit … Izzy … girl … you have to stop," he mutters, pulling backward. The loud plop-like sound is heard over the music.

He grins that sexy grin I like so much, and I feel another massive gush coat the place between my legs.

"I need you."

Closing the small distance between us, he forces my body to lie flat on the bed. He holds most of his body weight off me, but there's still enough there to let me feel his presence. Our gazes lock once again, and everything I'd hope he would feel for me is there: passion, lust, love; and, I also sense, loyalty. With one hand on the side of his face, I also see something else … unshed tears.

"Edward …"

He clears his throat as a solitary tear roll down his face and onto mine. "I know I don't deserve you, but I want you for myself anyway," he repeats the words he uttered to me in front of my parents' home many years ago.

He uses his strength to push us to the center of the bed, never breaking eye contact with me. Parting my legs, he lines us up. Pushing forward, I feel the wonderful stretching his head does to me, and I savor it. Even after all our time together, taking all of Edward inside of me is still a step-by-step process.

"Damn …" I mumble.

His lips find mine as my hands snake around, gripping his ass. The muscles under my fingers are tight as I knead them into his flesh.**  
**

"Shit …" he stutters out, going further into my body. "You fit me like a glove."

I angle my lower body upward, hastening his entrance. "How about you give me that son you mentioned downstairs?"

I'm not sure if it was the words I spoke or us being joined, but he slams into me with such force that I'm left breathless.

"You are so tight, even after Ren," he groans out, shifting his position. "I'll never get enough of you." He pulls out … and I'm lost in the varying levels of desire inundating me, threatening to a mighty eruption again.

"Don't you come," he grits out, pushing inward. "Not yet, Isabella."

My nerves are a tingling mass of uselessness as I try to control myself. He pulls out … almost all the way.

"This …" he whispers, pushing inward, "is _mine_."

He pulls out.

"Right?"

He pushes in.

"No man will _ever_ have _my _pussy, right?"

He pulls out.

My legs are shaking uncontrollably, and I can't form any words.

I shake my head in the negative.

He pushes all the way inside of me, causing my eyes to roll back into my head.

"I need the words," he demands, pulling out. "Say the words, Mrs. Cullen."

"Yours … no other man … never ... ever, Edward," I stammer out, pulling him toward me for a kiss.

He pushes inside, and I revel at his hardness, his length and his girth. "Now … damn it … come with me, baby."

I yell out as he grunts something that I can't quite hear.

My toes curl and my walls clench hard around him as we fall together into euphoria.

**A/N:**

So, thoughts on my first lemon?

Check out the blog luvtwilight4eva . blogspot . com (remove the spaces) for chapter title songs, looks and much more.

Some fics owning me at the moment:

Daphodill's _**Lagniappe**_;

GreekChic12's _**Rescission**_;

Jonesn's _**Bear Creek Road**_;

ConstantRambling's _**Paying for Your Sins**_;

Hoodfabulous' **Dirty **_**South Drug Wars**_; and

MsScribble's _**The Help**_.

Some contest entries for you to check out, from the Dirty Talkin' Edward, are: Hoodfabulous' and Jonesn's collaboration with _**In the Flesh**_ and ** 's **_**Dream or Reality**_.


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